University Is My Holme
by GreyClouds221
Summary: Sherlock is the underdog at university until his newest teacher Dr John Watson comes to the rescue. Of course they hit it off straight away, but Sherlock is still getting beat up and when secrets are uncovered, hearts and lives are at risk. Johnlock AU teacher!john student!sherlock mystrade sally/anderson Jim Moriarty
1. Chapter 1

"Urgh," Sherlock groaned, turning over.

He was on his back, presumably on the floor of his university dorm. His gangly legs were crossed over each other, his limp arms by his sides with the fuzzy, itchy carpet irritating his bare forearms. His face was the only thing that had managed to turn onto its right side. His body was extremely heavy to say he was laid down. Sherlock forced his eyelashes to part and drag his eyelids with them. He found himself staring at a wonky chair- wait no, it wasn't wonky, his eyesight was. He let it settle on the familiar plastic office chair (familiar not because it was his but because he always awoke like this) before attempting to move again.

"Not again," Sherlock grumbled in a dry gravelly voice when he managed to lift his shoulders off the floor. The bitter punch of metal formed in his mouth as he sat up, so he lifted a hand to his mouth to wipe the blood away. He pulled himself up off the floor and to the mirror to find the source of bleeding; his nose. Again.

The blood was like a flare on the ocean- it stood out so clearly on his undernourished looking skin, yet the vast paleness buried it into looking scarce. There was also blood on the edge of his dark curls which weighed the tips down into a sticky smudge across his forehead. Sherlock looked at it sourly with a dark frown but decided it couldn't be a bad cut, much to his... annoyance? He also checked the purple-green lump on his wrist and the aching bruise across his chest before grabbing his wash bag to go to the bathroom. The door opened sharply as he was about to leave.

"Oh... you're up," muttered Robert, Sherlock's roommate. He was smaller than Sherlock, but had a much larger build and a skinhead on top.

Sherlock didn't even bother to grunt in reply and started to leave before Robert noticed the blood. He smirked.

"They got you good last night, huh?" Robert laughed, shaking his head. "You're gonna cop it one of these days, Freak"

"Don't say that, you'll get my hopes high," Sherlock grumbled with his eyes narrowed. He left quickly and strode down the empty hallway to the bathroom. He washed most of the blood off but struggled with the clump in his hair. His clothes were crumpled from sleeping in them and were bloodstained in parts, but his watch informed him that he had no time to shower nor change his clothes before his first lecture. Instead, Sherlock went back to his room and blindly threw his wash bag in through the slightly open door and made his way down to the tree next to the stairs outside. The tree had a large hole towards the bottom. That was where his bag stayed when he wasn't using its contents: his books and laptop.

"So in other words, you're expecting me to pay for a new set of books and a new laptop when they've been taken by next week," his 'big brother' Mycroft had sighed when Sherlock told him about the tree.

Sherlock had rolled his eyes. "They're safer in the tree than in my dorm. Anyway... it's not like a couple of books and a computer would be much out of your wages, Mr 'David Cameron Is My Middle Name.'"

Sherlock leaned down and pulled out his bag before hauling it onto his bony shoulder. He grimaced slightly- his body was still aching sharply. He knew he was safe now though- nobody ever dared hurt him in day time and certainly nobody would pay enough attention to find his hiding place. Not that he cared anyway. Sherlock was passed caring about pretty much anything. It was only October and university had already managed to bore him into smoking and nagging his friend Lestrade to let him work on unsolved police cases. Lestrade was a good friend of Sherlock's, despite their many differences. He couldn't remember when and how he had met Lestrade because he had known him so long, but he had an inkling (a 99% positivity) that it had something to do with Mycroft. Mycroft was extremely fond of Lestrade even though they conversed around once a year on average. Sherlock found this highly amusing to say the least- Mycroft wasn't 'fond ' of anyone, yet he was all over Lestrade whenever he saw him or even if Sherlock just mentioned him. And then there was that time Mycroft saw Lestrade in his police uniform...

But even with nicotine and Lestrade's stupidity, university was far too dull for Sherlock Holmes. It was lonely (which didn't bother him in the slightest) because he had no friends, but he was actually more bothered about how easy the work was. He had expected it to be difficult and challenging but apparently he had been slow to think that.

Sherlock arrived at his chemistry lecture early-only the professor and one other student was in there, the other student being an 18 year old girl whose name Sherlock hadn't bothered to learn. He didn't actually know the professor's name. He had known it yesterday but then Lestrade sent him a case and he needed more room in his head...

The girl had her feet up on the row in front but the professor was too busy setting up apparatus to say anything. Sherlock sat away from the girl so neither of them had to look at each other.

The professor looked up as Sherlock sat down but he didn't bother to say anything either. He was a short man with wispy grey hair that was falling out rapidly. A lot of the class thought he was a joke with his tatty blazers and spotty bow ties, and even Sherlock couldn't disagree with this one. He was pathetic.

Sherlock sighed as he dropped his assignment on the professor's desk and got his laptop out to start working on the next one. He was extremely far ahead of the rest of his class so he worked on assignments as the professor spoke, taking in the new information as he typed out the previous. Although the professor had originally argued with Sherlock to put his laptop away and listen, he eventually gave up and consented to it. Sherlock had a feeling Mycroft may have 'intervened'. People found Mycroft was very persuasive and powerful, despite his young age.

"Ah, thank you William," said the professor, picking up the assignment. He _always_ insisted on calling Sherlock by his 'official' first name.

"Please it's Sherlock," Sherlock mumbled, scowling.

"The register says William Sherlock Scott Holmes," the professor argued, looking down his glasses at Sherlock.

"It was a mistake," Sherlock lied. "It's actually Sherlock William."

"Well I'm afraid I can only call you by your first name on this piece of paper."  
>There was a pause as Sherlock thought for a moment. "My brother calls me Sherlock," he said, smiling slightly.<p>

The professor sighed, figuring out Sherlock's game. He did, however, know he couldn't argue. "Sherlock it is," he muttered, turning back to his apparatus.

A few more students trickled in, mainly females, but also a couple of boys. One of them was Sebastian Moran. He was part of the gang that beat Sherlock up regularly. Sebastian only glanced slightly at Sherlock, and 'accidently' knocked his laptop shut before sitting down. As irritating as he found this, Sherlock knew he was safe in the middle of a classroom mid-morning. Sebastian hadn't been one of the group that hurt Sherlock last night, but he often joined in on Friday nights.

Not many males attended class on Mondays, even less so the ones that beat Sherlock up. Females also bunked off, but weren't as scarce as males. After the professor (Turner, someone had called him) had been waiting five minutes, he decided to get on with the lecture. Only 6 out of 17 students were in attendance, but even he was clever enough to notice the pattern of not turning up on Mondays. Professor Turner recapped on the relevance of ionic bonding and demonstrated an experiment to get the students interested. Sherlock typed away until the end of the lesson. As usual, he packed his things away and stood up, rubbing his tender chest.

He waited until everyone else had left before heading for the door himself- this was a tactic he often used to decrease the chance of getting caught in a crowd and getting more injured than necessary.

"Wil- Sherlock!" Professor Turner called after him. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, before spinning round on his agile heels.

"Sherlock, I forgot to say. Somebody asked me to send you to the Harley block after this class. That's the medicine centre," the professor said catching Sherlock up at the doorway.

"Yes, I know where it is," Sherlock snapped. "Who was this _somebody?"_

"Er... I can't say I know, if I'm honest. I forgot to ask. Short fellow, blond hair."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as it fit the description of Carl Thomas, one of the bullies in the same gang as Moran. Carl Thomas was pretty much the leader of the gang, actually.

Although being in Carl's presence was a painful experience for Sherlock (mentally and often physically) he decided to go anyway to find out what he wanted. Sherlock doubted Carl would try anything at this time, even if it was in an empty lecture theatre. Besides, he was already battered into passing out at least twice a week, what did he actually have to lose?

Five minutes later Sherlock was entering the main office of Harley block, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched and scowl more protruding than ever. The office worker was on her computer and looked up as she saw him. She rolled her eyes- a response considered normal when encountering a Holmes.

"Hello, Holmes. What is it this time? Have you come to tell me what I had for breakfast this morning or are we stepping it up again?"

Sherlock smirked as he remembered the last time he saw her. He had explained that her step mum and boyfriend were having an affair. According to Lestrade, that isn't considered... 'tactful'.

"Apparently somebody wanted me here," Sherlock said, eyes gleaming.

"Really? Somebody wanted _you_? _Here_?" She replied incredulously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes this time. "Very funny... Donovan, is it? Somebody asked for me, I don't know who. Possibly Carl Thomas."

Sally Donovan sighed and picked up the phone. She dialled the upstairs office and talked quietly for about 20 seconds before putting the phone down again.

"Upstairs, room Med2," she muttered, glad to get rid of Sherlock.

He was just as pleased to be leaving and walked upstairs and along the corridor. There was a light on in Med2, but he couldn't see anyone through the small window in the door. Sherlock pushed it open cautiously before stepping in slowly. At the other end of the room was a small figure hunched over some papers. He seemed to be ticking them and making notes. Professor Turner was right, the man was small and blond, but he definitely wasn't Carl Thomas. He was different somehow, Sherlock could tell that without even seeing the guy's face. Yet he couldn't help being sceptical. He held back at the door as he cleared his throat. The man looked up and smiled broadly.

"Come in, come in," he said enthusiastically. "You must be Sherlock."

Sherlock stepped forward and nodded sternly. "You must be new."

"Sorry?" the man asked, standing up.

"I've never seen you before."

"I'm a medicine doctor. You're a chemistry student. I don't think you should have seen me before. And you've only been here a month," he replied. It was a short reply but he was still smiling kindly.

Sherlock stood closer and analysed his face. He had lines but he wasn't old, he was wise to Sherlock's game, but Sherlock suspected this was because the man was well-informed rather than intelligent. But somehow, he was smart in a way that Sherlock couldn't understand.

"So... you're not new?" Sherlock frowned.

"Afraid not. Dr John Watson." He extended his hand.

Sherlock shied away from it. "How do I know you're a doctor? You could be anyone"

Dr Watson looked away, looking almost offended for a moment, before turning his attention back to Sherlock. Neither of them said anything, so Sherlock spoke first.

"I was expecting somebody else. I assume you're well acquainted with him," Sherlock explained.

Dr Watson looked at Sherlock, confused. "Somebody else?"

Sherlock sighed. "Fine we'll do this your way. Carl Thomas. I'm assuming it's one of his plans for you to pretend to be a doctor. Then do what... lure me to another room where they're all going to jump me? Or is it in here? Are you simply buying time until they get their lazy 'backsides' out of bed and bother to come and finish me off?"

The doctor looked up at him. "You have something red in your hair."

"So do you."  
>Watson blushed as he looked at his phone mirror and wiped it out. "Jam. And yours?"<p>

Sherlock looked away so the doctor persisted in a way only a teacher could.

"Professor Turner tells me you're leaps and bounds ahead of the chemistry class so he thought you might enjoy taking an extra class. I offered to give you extra tutor sessions on medicine if you're interested. Or you can turn up to my mainstream classes whenever time allows you," he explained.

Sherlock felt his cheeks redden as he looked down at his feet. Was this actually a tutor? Was he really being reasonable with him? Sherlock saw no signs of lying in Watson's face, but surely this was work of Carl Thomas, he'd been positive about it.

_Only because of the man's description, though, _Sherlock reminded himself.

He walked over to the table where Dr Watson had been working. The paper on top was an essay on the development of medicine in the UK. It was half marked-that was the scribbles he had making when Sherlock arrived.

"Is that enough proof for you, or should I start carrying ID with me?" Watson joked, as though he had read Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock was all set to believe him when: "You called me Sherlock. Why would you call me Sherlock when the university papers say my name is William?"

Watson smiled and let a chuckle slip. "Professor Turner told me you prefer it. Okay?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded. "When's your next class?"

"This afternoon, 2:30... So the red stuff in your hair. Is that blood?"

"Yes."

Watson looked at Sherlock, with narrowed eyes, as if he was trying to work him out. But his eyebrows were tilted up in the middle and Sherlock knew he was concerned and in need of an explanation- an explanation that Sherlock wasn't keen to give to a stranger.

Instead of asking for one, though, Watson asked, "So you're coming to the class?"

Sherlock nodded and looked at him. "I will. But my brother lives close by and I have him on speed dial," he warned, even though he was lying. "2:30 it is."

He picked up his bag that he didn't even realise he'd dropped, then walked out of the door without a look back. Sherlock walked quickly, adrenaline pumping, convinced he was going to get ambushed any second. But he didn't. He was back by his tree ten minutes later without a new scar on him. And he couldn't stop thinking about that funny little Watson man.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed already. It is my first published fanfiction so I would love as much feedback as you're willing to give, whether that be praise or criticism. Please review! Thanks x _

Sherlock sat by his tree for the rest of the morning and all through lunch before it was time to go to his medicine class. He was still cautious that Dr Watson had been a creation of Thomas, so he walked the long way round to Harley block as quick as he could. The wind had started to pick up and it hit Sherlock's bruised chest like a dagger to the heart through his cotton shirt. He groaned softly at the pain and started to wonder if any permanent damage had been done. Perhaps he'd go and get it checked out... then again, he didn't want Mycroft finding out.

"Back again Holmes?" It was Donovan the secretary looking at Sherlock with her eyebrows almost touching her hairline.

"I have a class here now," he snapped, stopping to glare at her.

"Oh brilliant... so you're going to be in here every day now?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Maybe I need to find a new job," she muttered as Sherlock walked on.

At the top of the stairs he realised he hadn't actually asked Dr Watson which room his classes were held in.

_Presumably the one he was marking work in, idiot,_ he told himself, shaking his head. He really wasn't on the ball today.

Sherlock opened the door to Med2 not as slowly this time, but still with the full expectation of taking a blow to the head any second now. When he didn't, he continued inside where he found an empty room. To his own surprise, his stomach turned over and filled with disappointment. He had quite liked the idea of Dr Watson being a real man offering to teach him medicine.

Sherlock banged his fist on the table. He had let himself get hopeful, and now he was a sitting duck for Thomas and Moran, just waiting for them to run in and knock him out. He shuddered at the thought, knowing his chest couldn't take much more. He hit his fist again, but this time he caught the swollen bruise on the side of his wrist. The pain shot up his arm like a razor blade as he let out a yell.

_It's your own stupid fault for coming in here in the first place,_ Sherlock reminded himself.

Suddenly the door flew open and Sherlock jumped back ready to defend himself, accidentally knocking a chair over in the process of it. However, when he stood still the person who had entered was in fact Dr Watson. A very bewildered Dr Watson at that.

"You're early, Sherlock," he commented, deciding not to bother asking why the hell he just threw a chair on the floor.

Sherlock nodded. He stood and watched Dr Watson balance his coffee cup and papers as he shut the door.

"I didn't think you'd be here... I mean I was afraid it would be someone else," Sherlock said. He had intended for it to sound snappy but realised afterwards that it just sounded sheepish.

"Afraid?" asked the doctor, looking up at him.

Sherlock couldn't make eye contact and instead plonked his bag down on the front row before sitting in the chair next to it.

Watson continued, "If you were afraid, why did you come here?"

"I was curious," Sherlock replied as though he had just told Dr Watson the answer to 1 plus 1 is 2.

Dr Watson sat down behind his own desk. "You should be careful. You know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat"

Sherlock frowned at him. "What cat? Who says that?"

Dr Watson chuckled quietly and started marking some papers after assuming that Sherlock was joking.

Sherlock took this to mean he was being annoying and got out his laptop instead. He had already almost finished his chemistry assignment and thought he might as well finish it off in the five minutes he had before the lesson started.

He actually had ten minutes, enough to add a substantial conclusion, before the lesson started. The turnout for medicine was even worse than his chemistry class: only two other students showed up. Ironically, one of them was Stanley Davidson, the leader of the mob that pulped Sherlock last night.

"Dr Watson," Stanley grunted. "What's _he_ doing here?"

He nodded his head down at Sherlock as if he wasn't anything worth looking at. It made Sherlock smirk how simple he was. As if a boy like Stanley is ever going to pass medicine.

"I didn't think you went out for this kind of thing, Davidson," snapped Sherlock before the tutor could reply. "You know, turning up on Mondays... turning up at all..."

"You shut it Holmes," Stanley said loudly. He grabbed Sherlock's right shoulder and yanked his ear towards his mouth. "Or we'll kill you next time"

"Alright that's enough!" Dr Watson had turned around and watched the whole scene play out.

Sherlock wasn't sure whether Watson had heard the death threat or not, but he was too astonished to care. A tutor had actually just stuck for him. It made Sherlock smile slightly. Then he shook himself.

_You don't need him, _he thought, scowling. _He's just taking pity on you._

He acquired his usual surly mask as he started making notes on his laptop- it was all clear to him despite the fact the class were half way through a topic. Dr Watson kept looking over at him as if to check that Sherlock was okay. He even came over and asked at one point. Sherlock scoffed and looked away.

At the end of the lesson Sherlock got summoned to stay behind for the second time that day.

"Why do you keep talking to me?" he snapped, deciding he wasn't going to be nice to Watson anymore.

"I was just making sure you're alright," the doctor explained. "It's a hard class to catch up with."

"Well of course _you'd_ think that."

"Meaning?"

Sherlock smirked, happy that he'd finally managed to peeve Watson off a little.

"Meaning whatever you take it to mean," Sherlock said as he started to back away.

"Wait," murmured the doctor stepping forward. "Just answer my question, are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You still have blood in your hair," Watson pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. "None of your business is it, Dr Watson?"

He crinkled his nose. It was the first time he had used that name and thought it sounded silly in his voice.

"You can call me John. And I could make it my business."

"The other students call you Dr Watson."

John smiled. "It doesn't take a genius to see you're not exactly like the other students."  
>Sherlock decided to take this as a compliment (reluctantly).<p>

He waited for a moment, considering his words. "You can't make my hair your business. You don't have a duty of care in university. Especially not when I turn 18 in January."

John started to laugh. "Maybe not officially... I'll just look out for you okay? Until you turn 18. Not that you need it, having started uni a year early but I just wanted you to know..."  
>Sherlock looked at him, eyes narrowed. "Wanted me to know what?"<p>

John looked down and thought quickly. "That if I see you smoking by that tree again I'll tell your brother."  
>Sherlock stepped forward, his height making him seem more menacing next to John. He was more annoyed that John had found his hiding place, rather than any other reason.<p>

"You don't even know my brother," he growled.

"Everyone knows your bloody brother," John muttered, trying his best not to be intimidated. "You can leave now if you want. And wash your hair, will you? The blood makes you look... dead."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at this last part. He made his way to the door and stopped.

"Perhaps you were wrong," he called at John.

John turned. "Sorry?"

"Maybe you are a genius. You said I was different. After all, it takes one to know one," Sherlock stated before leaving swiftly.

John looked at the doorway where he'd been standing and smiled to himself.

.·.

That night Sherlock left campus to go and buy himself a medicine textbook from the university shop on the edge of town. It wasn't dark yet, but the sun was relaxed on the horizon, projecting a dull orange across the clouds. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing all day, now with a coat on top. His hair still hung limply with dried blood and his chest was pounding from the walk to the shop, even though it was a short one.

"Shouldn't you be at home?" he said shortly to the man behind the counter. He was a tall bodybuilder who looked like he could crush Sherlock's fragile frame with his little finger.

The man, Fraser, according to his name badge, bagged up the book for Sherlock and frowned at him.

"Me? No..."

"But your daughter's just been in a car crash," said Sherlock, taking his bag. "Didn't you know?"

Fraser sighed loudly. "I've heard about you and I won't put up with your-"

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Fraser pulled his phone out of his pocket.

_ANSWER YOUR FLAMING PHONE WILL YOU?! BETH IS IN HOSPITAL. DON'T YOU CARE?!_

Sherlock smiled as Fraser looked both astonished and angry.

"Good day," Sherlock murmured before leaving.

He liked doing that. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed shocking people and making them feel bad and angry and scared. It made himself feel better. Sherlock knew he was a bully, but he didn't see it as wrong. After all, it's not like he was pummelling people to unconsciousness every night like the other twats at his university.

When Sherlock got back to his dorm it was empty- Robert often spent evenings with his girlfriend and didn't get back until Sherlock was going to bed. He went in and gathered up his pyjamas and fresh underwear as well as his wash bag. Sherlock had decided to take John's advice on the showering situation. He made his way to the bathroom and through the door at the end where the shower cubicles were situated. It was a disappointment to find it wasn't empty- some of the showers didn't work and Sherlock enjoyed having the ability to choose his preferred cubicle. However, at least two people were already in there, so he went to the one furthest away from them and started to undress, pulling a towel from his wash bag.

Sherlock had taken off all of his clothes- only his underwear remained on his body- when all the showers stopped at once. He turned, frowning, to see Carl Thomas and Stanley Davidson grinning maliciously and stomping towards him. They were both fully clothed and neither of them were wet; Sherlock realised they must have turned the showers on and hidden in one of the cubicles either side. He felt helpless and stood still, looking at them bemused. Then he dropped his towel on the floor and opened his arms, inviting an attack.

Carl sniggered. "Alright Holmes? Ready for Round 2?"


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: My chapters are getting shorter I know! Been busy with new year and birthday and what not but it'll get longer again now :) Please keep reading and reviewing- all feedback is good feedback. Thank you!_

Sherlock woke up in his dorm. It was dark outside, but he could make out the silhouette of the wonky- no that was his eyesight again- office chair.

He breathed out loudly and sat up to see if Robert was here. His bed was empty so he was probably at his girlfriend's place. The back of Sherlock's head was pounding and he could feel a stickiness on his neck and face. His chest was hurting more than ever, crunching his ribs and clenching his lungs, restricting his breathing to a raspy wheeze. His cheek felt frail when he touched it and he knew it had swelled to a size considerably larger than his other.

The clock next to his mirror read 2:48, so he turned the light on, realising Robert wouldn't be coming back until it was time for class. The face in the mirror was a mess: bright red plastered across a purple lump that was desperately trying to poke through delicate skin; black hair stained with red-brown clumps; an unusually wide-set neck, pasted in a flaming fire solution.

Sherlock tried to steady his breathing- this wasn't the worst thing they had done to him, but it came extremely close. His face had been injured worse than this, but his chest didn't feel right. He was sure there was something wrong.

Sherlock didn't get any more sleep, so he went to the bathroom early to get washed. The lump on his cheek looked worse with no blood on it and he wondered if anyone would comment on it. He managed to get all the blood off him this time, but the purple blotch spread from his cheekbone to the outer corner of his eye. As he was about to leave he noticed a pile of clothes at the far end where the showers were.

_Funny how they can drag me back to my room but not my clothes,_ Sherlock thought. He scooped them up and took them back to his room before getting changed into some clean clothes. On his way out he noticed the small smudges of damp rose on the dirty beige carpet and he knew instantly that it was his blood from the previous night. It pissed him off more than he wanted it to. He hated it when he let things get to him, but it was embarrassing that he could be controlled by the thick, small minded bullies that let him nearly bleed out every week. He hated that he couldn't handle people by himself and he hated that he needed... 'help'.

When Sherlock had picked his bag up he made his way to John's classroom. He needed to find out when his next class was, but he was unsure that John would be in yet. It was 30 minutes before any classes started, so he went to the main office first. Donovan was in again.

"Is Watson here yet?" he demanded when she looked up.

"Don't you ever say excuse me or something?" she muttered sitting back and spinning from side to side in her chair.

"I don't need to. Is Watson here yet?"

"Upstairs office," she grunted.

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and instead went straight to Med2. John was in there, sat in exactly the same spot as last time, marking.

"Do we have a class this morning?" Sherlock asked without announcing his entrance.

John jumped and hit his knee on the underneath of the desk.

"Christ Sherlock, I didn't know you'd come in," he sighed, rubbing his knee. Then he looked up and saw Sherlock's cheek. He stood up.

"Don't," murmured Sherlock backing away.

"What happened?" John asked. His voice was quiet but Sherlock had never felt so threatened-it was so demanding.

"John," Sherlock breathed, verging on anger because John had managed to scare him. "Do we have a class this morning or not?"

John looked at him incredulously. "You're seriously asking me this now?"

"What do you expect? You're a tutor who I only met yesterday, what do you want? An explanation?"

"Yes, preferably. Even if I'd never taught you before I'd still be asking you. Your face is a mess."

"Oh stop trying to play the good teacher and answer my question," snapped Sherlock.

"Just let me see, I'm a doctor." John moved closer to him and reached a hand out.

Sherlock jerked his head away and shoved John's shoulder. This triggered a sharp pain across Sherlock's chest and he fell onto the chair behind him. John sat down across from him and sighed.

"You have major trust issues," John grumbled, watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall and his long slender hand gripping the cotton shirt that covered it.

"Look who's talking. Your therapist would say the same about you. In fact, she already has," Sherlock grumbled, not being able to hold back a deduction about John for any longer.

John shook his head, staring pityingly at Sherlock. He had only just noticed how mature Sherlock's face looked, even though his features were carved softly and with a cautious intricacy. It was almost like he had had a shitty childhood but youth had been kind to him by not showing it with lines. John liked this. It made Sherlock seem mysterious, if not unfathomable.

"John," Sherlock muttered when his chest had recovered.

John raised his eyebrows instead of speaking.

"Do we have a class this morning?"

John couldn't help but smile at the way Sherlock asked this. The comic timing was perfect due to the fact Sherlock couldn't breathe moments ago, yet he had delivered the line with a complete poker-face. And something told John it was genuine.

"Yes. At 10. So you're over an hour early," smiled John as he went back to his seat and shuffled his papers.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up slowly. The pain in his chest had subsided and had been replaced with the (now) familiar tightness that clamped round him.

"How about I print a timetable off for you? That way you can see for yourself if your classes clash," John offered, sitting back down.

Sherlock stared down at his sandy hair. It laid flatly across his head apart from where it met the top of his neck. Here it stuck outwards as though John runs his hand across it regularly. Sherlock wondered if it was because he's stressed.

"I can work out my classes by myself," Sherlock pointed out, standing in front of John's table.

"Really? So that's why you came and asked me if we have a class this morning? Because you know absolutely everything," John murmured without looking up from his marking.

Sherlock pouted sourly but stopped when it made his cheek throb.

"It'll save you a lot of trouble," John said, trying to make Sherlock give in.

Sherlock knew John was right but didn't want to admit it.

Instead, he said, "If you have your heart set on printing a timetable out for me then do it. But I couldn't care either way."

He started towards the door.

"Sherlock," John called. "Are you sure you don't want to tell me what happened to your face?"

"I'll see you at ten," Sherlock said, eyebrows raised.

"Do you want to stay here until the class starts?"

"See you at ten."

Sherlock considered going to his tree but actually just sat in Med1, the room next door. It was brighter in that room because it faced away from the trees that blocked so much light from reaching Med2. The second floor was free of students for most of the time Sherlock was in there, though every so often he would hear a student go to the staff room to ask a professor something. Sherlock started to get twitchy doing nothing, so instead he took out his laptop and emailed Lestrade for a case. He had begged and pleaded for Lestrade's number but apparently that would be a 'breach of code of conduct' or something along those lines. Still, Sherlock was sure Lestrade was crossing some sort of line by sharing confidential cases with a 17 year old.

When Lestrade didn't reply to his email within five minutes, Sherlock gave up and shoved his stuff under a table before going outside to smoke. He decided to go to his tree to see if he could find out where John would have seen him from. When he got there he noticed a carving there that he hadn't seen before.

_Freak's Palace_

Sherlock sighed and sat with his back to it. Not only had John been watching him, but he'd also given away where his most valuable (ish) possession was kept. Sherlock was starting to decide he didn't like John that much.

_But at least he isn't one of Thomas's gang, _Sherlock argued with himself. _He's just as bad if he told them where you keep your stuff. Honestly. You ever know where you are with that man._

The sandy dirt below Sherlock worked great for him to stub out his cigarette. After he did so, he stood up and looked around at the buildings surrounding him. There were buildings three sides of him; in front of him was the path leading out of the gates and off campus.

He pursed his lips in thought and looked around. And then he saw him.

To Sherlock's right was the library building, but in the distance, taller than the library, was the medicine block. Right on the top floor was a short, blond doctor, arms folded, feet shoulder-width apart, staring right down at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him, shocked for only half a moment, before ducking back down and slumping against the tree. The library hung over the tree so that John wouldn't be able to see Sherlock if he was sat down.

It made him angry. Surely that was a 'breach' of Sherlock's privacy? It wasn't normal to go out of your way to stare at a kid next to a tree. John had been on the top floor, not even the second where his own classroom was. This made him angrier. John had gone onto a completely different floor just to... to what? What was this even classed as? Spying? Stalking?

_Don't be ridiculous._

It was that argument that made Sherlock even more scared- didn't he _mind _that a random tutor was staring at him. Surely... no, surely he wasn't starting to believe that the tutor _cared_ for him?

He stood up slowly, the sharp bark piercing his back uncomfortably. When he stood up straight the window of Harley came into view.

John was gone.

That's what made Sherlock decide to chain-smoke by his tree instead of going to medicine class.


	4. Chapter 4

_Note: Hey everyone, thanks for sticking with the story so far it means a lot. I hope you enjoy this chapter and, as always, all feedback is appreciated! Thanks x_

In fact, Sherlock chain-smoked there for the rest of the morning. He didn't want to see John or go to lessons or do anything in particular. He did, however, want to work. Not schoolwork- real work, which is why he needed to get his laptop to find a reply from Lestrade. He knew he had one because he could check on his phone, but Lestrade always sent files to Sherlock that wouldn't download on his device.

Sherlock sighed, reluctant to leave his comfortable nest by the tree.

_Not yours for much longer, _he reminded himself as he glanced at the carving above the small hole.

Sherlock let his eyes sweep over the window that John had stood by earlier, but he found it empty again. He sighed again, this time with more meaning, before going back to Med1.

"Tut tut tut, Holmes," a loud, slow voice came from Med2 as Sherlock walked past.

Sherlock didn't bother to turn. "Later."

But he regretted saying that as soon as it slipped through his lips.

"Yeah. Later it is," the voice grunted, before footsteps leading away.

Sherlock bit his lip and went into the room to get his bag. However, when he got to the place he'd been sitting, the bag was gone.

"For fuck's sake," he whispered to himself, rubbing his stinging eyes.

"Looking for these?"

Sherlock turned, expecting to see the same person who had just spoken to him. But this voice was different- smooth, flat, flowing. It was clean and fresh, not the angry grumble that had growled at him moments ago. If it was a food, it would have been refrigerated single cream.

John held up Sherlock's shoulder bag in one hand and had his laptop tucked under his other arm. Sherlock hated the way John's eyes were glowing, the way he knew he was winning, the way his thin pout of a mouth had curled up in one corner.

"Give them to me," Sherlock growled, walking over to John. John took a deep breath.

"You smell of smoke," he stated.

"That's what happens when you smoke," Sherlock smiled sarcastically. He hated how much it took for John to... to... piss off.

Sherlock grabbed at his bag and snatched it off the shorter man before pulling his laptop sternly. John just smiled as his face softened into superiority. Sherlock knew he had an idea, he could see the light bulb brighten above his head.

"I'll tell your brother," John said folding his arms. Sherlock couldn't help but think he looked rather comical because of his height.

"I'll tell him you stole my things," Sherlock threatened.

This seemed to hit John so suddenly Sherlock could almost see the light bulb over his head smash. But instead of arguing, the doctor just entered the room and sat down. Sherlock almost took this opportunity to leave, but curiosity led him to a chair a row in front of John. Somehow, Sherlock was sure John had planned that.

John was sat with his legs crossed and back straight. He was looking straight at Sherlock, his gaze penetrating Sherlock's linear thoughts that filled the infinite fields of his mind. Sherlock felt himself flood with anger. This man was a joke.

"Why do you smoke?" John asked.

"Oh shut the fuck up. I didn't come here for an interrogation, I wanted my laptop," Sherlock grumbled rudely.

"So why haven't you left yet?"

It took all of Sherlock's strength to not say 'I don't know'.

John raised an eyebrow when he didn't answer.

"Did you tell your students about my smoking?" he asked John.

"No. Why?"

"One of the great oafs just started tutting at me."

John shrugged. "Nothing to do with me."

Sherlock studied his face. It looked scared. Yes, there was a mask on top of it- a brave, stubborn, desperate mask- but it was vulnerable and questioning.

Sherlock slid off his seat and gathered his belongings.

John grabbed his forearm. "Timetable," he said, shoving it into his hands.

Sherlock took it and turned away, knowing John was still staring at his swollen cheek.

"Please let me look at your bruise."

"Like you just said, it's only a bruise."

"Sherlock ple-"

John hadn't finished his sentence before his back was being slammed against a desk by the student. He struggled against him, but Sherlock pinned the doctor's face down onto its left side with a strong, forceful hand.

"What part of no don't you understand? I don't want you to look at my fucking face! I don't want you near me! Just leave me alone, okay?!" he yelled in a deep, growling voice.

John whimpered in reply. Sherlock hated that he loved seeing John suffer.

"I said okay?!" he shouted, ramming the bottom of his hand into the hollow area below John's cheekbone.

"Okay," John breathed.

Sherlock released him and stalked out, trying to take no notice of the small pool of water that remained on the table just under where John's eye had been.

Sherlock stopped going to medicine. He even stopped going to chemistry for a while. He couldn't see the point in showing up. The work was so boring and his brain was tearing itself apart, eating him alive. Even smoking had stopped working which worried Sherlock even more-would this drive him to going back to something stronger?

"Can't I just come and work with you? University isn't working for me," Sherlock whined to Lestrade one day when they were skyping.

Lestrade laughed. "We don't need you here, you always answer your emails."

"Maybe I'll stop. Then you'll want me at Scotland Yard. The others there are far too stupid to compete with me."

"I think you'd suffer more than us. You practically beg me for these cases, you'd die if I didn't give them to you," Lestrade grinned again, but his smile faded as he started to realise how true this was.

Sherlock picked up a roll of tape and started throwing it between his hands.

He shrugged. "My classes are what's killing me. I don't even go anymore."  
>Lestrade seemed to look at him more closely, even though he didn't move towards the camera. The bruise on Sherlock's cheek was now just a light blemish over his bone. The swelling had gone down but Sherlock started to wonder if Lestrade had noticed it.<p>

"I'll tell your brother," Lestrade murmured.

"Oh God!" Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back in frustration. "Is that the only threat anybody actually has over me?"

Lestrade was grinning again, but before he could reply the door swung open. Robert had come back to get his football kit.

"Who's that?" both Lestrade and Robert asked at once.

"My roommate. A detective inspector," Sherlock grunted, his tone changing now Robert was in the room. Sherlock didn't look at either of these people in particular whilst he was speaking, he just let his eyes drift to the floor. Usually Robert would make a snide remark about Sherlock's bruises, but the detective inspector thing seemed to have put him off. When he left, Sherlock looked back up at Lestrade.

"Any more cases?"

"Sherlock. You solved one five minutes ago. I think I should tell your brother, you seem..." Lestrade trailed off, frowning at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "It's this tutor, he's... disturbing me. I mean, there's something about him, he's weird."

"I've never heard you ramble so much. You find everyone weird, Sherlock. Just go to your classes."

Sherlock picked his legs up and tucked them onto his chair, locking his arms around them.

"I'll go. I didn't expect you to understand. I forgot how small your mind is," he grumbled.

Lestrade scratched his head and looked at the camera. "Go on. Go to your class."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and sighed before ending the call. He picked up his coat and left.

It was starting to get cold outside now it was November and Sherlock worried about leaving his laptop outside in his tree. Surprisingly, it hadn't been stolen yet. Why did they carve 'Freak's Palace' into the tree if they didn't know his things were in there? The minds of other people never failed to baffle Sherlock.

Once he had collected his things he thought about going to find John. Not to talk to him, but to hand in an assignment. At least that's what Sherlock told himself. He hadn't stopped thinking about John since he'd pinned him against the table and yelled at him. It was a move that he'd picked up from Sebastian Moran- it was his signature move- and Sherlock had performed it on John without even thinking about it. But it made him sigh, knowing that he'd sunk to Moran's level. Maybe he _would _talk to John properly. Besides, he hadn't actually left his room for the past couple of weeks (apart from to shower, and he was extremely cautious about the times he went), so nobody had had chance to beat him up again. He had no more bruises and most of his others were gone. The only remaining injury was the monster that clawed at his chest, feeding off his short breaths. It bit into Sherlock like a dog to a bone, especially when it was cold outside. He couldn't get rid of the tightness gripping his chest, no matter how long he waited.

"Is Watson in?" Sherlock asked Donovan when he got to the medicine office.

She sighed and put down the file paper she was reading. "Upstairs."

Sherlock stepped from one foot to the other.

"Yes?" asked Donovan, leaning forward on her table.

"Nothing," he murmured before hopping up the stairs, his long legs getting him to the top in no time at all.

He went straight into Med2 and John was sat at his front desk for once, right next to the door. He looked up and flinched when he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock bit his lip and sat down in front of John without saying anything. John waited for him to speak, but went back to his marking when he didn't.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, Sherlock watching John's muscular hand scribble notes in the margin of the paper. Every so often John would sigh and shake his head with a frown before putting a large cross in red ink next to the work he'd just read. When he was concentrating, he pulled his hand across the back of his neck, driving his short blond hairs into sticking out at funny angles. His eyebrows would point down slightly in the centre whilst he sucked bottom lip in with his lower teeth. Sherlock found this oddly satisfying.

Soon enough (sooner than Sherlock had hoped for), John had finished marking his thin pile of work so he put his pen down and stretched, crinkling his face up and widening it.

"So," he said, lowering his arms and looking at Sherlock. "What have you come for?"

John's voice sounding different today. It was sterner than usual and he spoke in a lower tone.

Sherlock completely forgot about the assignment and shrugged.

"You don't _know_?" John asked in his normal tone, even cracking a small smile.

This made Sherlock relax and even his mouth curved up at the corners.

"Is it to ask me about some work? To hand in some homework? Or is it to apologise for bulldozing my face into a desk?" John asked leaning across his desk to look closely into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock hadn't appreciated how pretty John's eyes actually are before now. They were blue underneath everything, but just like his face they were masked by a swirl of dark hues that merged into a glinting grey. Sherlock wondered why John had to hide so much.

"I shouldn't have hit you. But you shouldn't have tried to touch my face," said Sherlock, not letting his eyes swerve from John's. He was slouching across his own desk now, closing the gap between them to a short foot.

"I didn't want to touch it. Just look at it," John admitted, staring back just as intently. His mouth was pushed forward into a loose pout.

"Still. I'd made my answer quite clear. I didn't want you to."  
>"You didn't need to answer. I never asked you a question."<p>

"Exactly. You can't touch my face without asking," Sherlock said. He almost laughed at how ridiculous that sounded.

John raised his eyebrows and leaned back and the connection between them broke. He extended his arm out to Sherlock's hand.

"I won't touch your face without asking, and you won't touch mine. Okay?" John asked, smiling broadly now.

"Agreed," Sherlock mumbled, taking John's hand.

He wanted to shake it but he couldn't. It was so warm and plump compared to his own pointy ice block hand. It was like Sherlock's hand had fallen upon a spongy pillow that encased his bony knuckles perfectly. And it paralysed him.

John used his other hand to pat Sherlock's shoulder before he let go of both.

_Why did he have to let go?_ Sherlock thought desperately. It painted the tips of his cheeks rose.

"Is there anything else you needed?" John asked him, bringing him back to reality.

"No," Sherlock said, getting up. "Oh. Yes I have this assignment."  
>John smiled as he took it off him. The tips of their fingers met as they passed the paper and it was enough to throw Sherlock back into his cushiony paradise. But instead of standing still like an idiot, he blinked and stuffed his hands in his pockets before going to the door.<p>

"When will I see you again?" Sherlock asked, his mouth slightly dry.

"Check your timetable," smiled John.

"No I meant... never mind," Sherlock murmured as he left.

He wanted to sit and watch John work, he wanted to talk closely to his face, he wanted to shake his hand. He wanted.

It was a feeling Sherlock didn't get that often, and it certainly wasn't one that he couldn't control. But right now it was spiralling through his mind like a leaf through the wind and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. Sherlock wanted John Watson and it was driving him mad.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sorry about the short chapter! Will be much longer tomorrow :)_

_Disclaimer: 'Pain demands to be felt' -The Fault in Our Stars, John Green_

When Sherlock started going back to chemistry lectures Professor Turner seemed surprised to see him.

"You've decided to join us this week, William?" he said, having forgot that Sherlock didn't like that name.

"I doubt I've missed much," Sherlock snapped, getting his laptop out. He couldn't be bothered to correct his name anymore, it was obvious there was no point.

Professor Turner stepped forward to argue with Sherlock, but decided against it. Sherlock smiled sarcastically and sighed.

Sherlock hadn't been beaten up for over 2 weeks now, a record he hadn't managed to reach since the first time he got jumped. He was relieved about it, but knew it wouldn't last for long- now he was out and going to classes again he was sure Carl Thomas would arrange another attack. His chest was still just as bad as it had been for the last couple of weeks which started to play on his mind more than he expected.

Sherlock also hadn't seen John since they had talked together so... closely? Intimately? Sherlock's medicine class was only on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays. It clashed with his chemistry class on a Wednesday afternoon, but so far Sherlock had carried on going to chemistry instead of medicine. However, this afternoon, he decided, he was going to start going to medicine. Besides, if he attended this chemistry class on every Wednesday morning, there was no point in going to the practical class in the afternoon.

At the end of the lecture, Professor Turner seemed to realise this in some way.

"You will be attending again this afternoon, won't you Scott?"

Sherlock almost laughed at being addressed in this way. He stifled it by biting his lip and looked up at the professor.

"No actually. I have medicine this afternoon," he said, trying to sound like he regretted not being able to go to chemistry.

"You do realise that medicine is an extra course on top of chemistry? Chemistry should be your main priority here, Scott," argued the professor, his large face looking ridiculous as it sat on top of his bowtie.

"Of course, Professor," Sherlock muttered. "But I need to get in all the hours I can to catch up with medicine as I get started. I'm extremely far behind." His lies were smooth.

The professor shook his head disapprovingly. "Maybe I should ask old Hamish to give you an extra session instead of that class. I'd prefer it if you attended my class."

Sherlock frowned at Turner. "Hamish?"

"That's his name, isn't it? Your medicine tutor?" He paused for a moment. "No, that's his middle name, isn't it..."  
>"Listen," Sherlock said, getting bored of this already. "I'll come to Wednesday morning chemistry every week, just like today. Then I'll... catch up on the afternoon class. Okay?"<p>

He marched out before Professor Turner could protest.

That afternoon when Sherlock set off to medicine he walked through the hallway with only one other person- Stanley Davidson was walking towards him, beaming with an intense scowl. Sherlock internally grimaced and looked down at the floor, examining it to keep his mind afar. Pain demands to be felt, but thinking about other things made his mind less submissive.

_Beige with dark green diamonds ,_ Sherlock repeated in his mind, looking at the carpet pattern.

He was a few steps away from Stanley now.

_Green diamonds. Green diamonds. What else? Gr-_

"OUGH!" yelled Sherlock as Stanley's elbow drove into his chest. He was winded instantly, left cradling his ribs with one slender hand. His other hand clamped onto the windowsill next to him, using it to hold himself up right.

"You'll keep your head up next time Holmes, ay?" Stanley laughed, walking away as though nothing had happened.

Sherlock groaned and tried to breathe normally.

_In... Out... In... Out..._

When his breathing settled down again, Sherlock realised his eyes were squeezed shut so he opened them slowly, trying to let his pupils adjust to the dazzling low sunlight that burst into the hallway. Nobody else was here and his chest was pounding. Should he go for help?

_Don't be a drama queen,_ he told himself aggressively. _You'll be late for Joh- medicine. Late for medicine._

He pulled himself upright and started walking, one small step at a time. It didn't seem to bring anymore discomfort to Sherlock, so he quickened his pace until he reached his usual speed. He had to go to his tree first to collect his laptop, so he clutched the railing as he stumbled down the steps, trying his best to ignore the hammer and chisel hacking away at his lungs. As he reached the bottom, he steadied himself and looked around. Everything seemed brighter and cleaner for some reason. The sky was an exotic ocean with clouds of dolphins splashing around, the ground a spread of fresh carpet leading up to Sherlock's tree. He ran along and yanked out his laptop. He had wrapped it in a thick fleece to make sure it didn't ice up. Now all he had to do was get to medicine and he might even consider telling John what had happened.

There was a note on the door of Med2 when Sherlock arrived there. It was in a messy scribble-written in a rush.

_2pm class: Got a meeting, class cancelled. Don't worry about catching up, will recap tomorrow. Here at 2:30pm if you have any questions_

_-Dr Watson_

Sherlock kicked the door open in anger and fell down into a chair. It was already 2:10pm- apparently nobody had any questions for John as Sherlock was the only one there. He had never before been so grateful for lack of people. He intended to stay there until the end of John's meeting. It was the longest 20 minutes he had ever endured. By the end of it, his face was paler than usual, his eyes were glazed and his hair was hanging limply in a tangled heap from all the time he'd ran his trembling hands through it. His breathing had become a series of short air intakes.

John walked in whistling with a large pile of papers before noticing Sherlock. His face turned from being relaxed and thoughtful to anxious and shocked.

"Sherlock? Sherlock what happened to you?" he questioned, dropping his papers and curving round to be the same height as Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head breathlessly. "Nothing..."

"Sherlock, don't start with this now. Tell me what's wrong with you or I'm calling an ambulance."

John's tone was so stern Sherlock knew not to mess with him.

"Can't breathe... Got hit... again..." he gasped, trying to keep eye contact with John to give himself something to look at.

John knew he had to stay calm. "Okay. It's okay, just give me one minute."

He turned to go to his cupboard but Sherlock gripped his arm with all his strength.

"Don't leave me," Sherlock whimpered.

John had never seen anything so distressing. It was like the sparkling green in Sherlock's eyes had faded to a sombre marsh.

"I'm not. Just to the cupboard," he said softly, pointing to the cupboard.

Sherlock let go and John rushed to get his stethoscope. He came back and stepped so close to Sherlock he could smell his musky aroma of smoke and deodorant.

"Come here," John said, almost whispering now. He put the stethoscope round his neck and moved his hands towards Sherlock's chest. Sherlock pulled away.

"What are you doing?" he breathed unsurely.

"I need to unbutton your shirt," John explained, raising his eyebrows for permission.

Sherlock nodded and John took his top button between his index fingers and thumb. He worked his way down to the bottom one before shoving his stethoscope into his own ears.

When he pressed it against Sherlock's chest the younger man gasped loudly and winced.

"Sorry," murmured John. He made his force lighter when he tried again.

This time he got a clear sound of Sherlock's breathing, but John was too absorbed in the white sheet covering Sherlock's ribcage. His chest wasn't paved with muscle or coated with hairs. It was just a perfect, blemish-free piece of paper placed over his insides. It wasn't what was classed as 'attractive', but to John it was everything. Sherlock's ribs were smooth, polished bumps that rose elegantly away from the glossy plane. His pecs lifted up discreetly and tumbled back down to meet in the middle, just below his neck.

John cleared his throat and shook his head lightly, trying to focus on the task in hand. Sherlock's breaths were rapid and choppy and John knew it was a hospital matter.

He took out the stethoscope and looked down at Sherlock.

"Hospital?" Sherlock croaked, a tear seeping out.

John nodded, almost crying himself. "Come on. I'll take you."  
>He put an arm round Sherlock's back and held onto his pronged shoulder blade. Then John led Sherlock to his car.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

_Please note: This chapter contains vague reference (brief mention and no description) of sexual abuse, drug abuse and self harm_

John's car was an old, small two-door. It was dusty and had splatters of muddy rain along the bottom of the doors and across the tips of the mud flaps. Inside it was messy with various papers and jackets and old car air fresheners scattered across the back seats. It was cold and the seat creaked as John sat down. The passenger seat made no sound and Sherlock knew John was the only person who used this car. He groaned as he dropped onto his seat.

John glanced over at him. "Don't put your seatbelt on. It'll probably do less damage if you don't."  
>"Wasn't going to anyway," Sherlock groaned.<p>

"Of course you weren't," muttered John, driving out of the car park.

Sherlock turned his attention to his shirt and started buttoning it up.

"I wouldn't bother with that, you'll have to undo it again when you get there," John added. He knew the standard procedure of chest issues and knew that the doctors would want to listen to Sherlock's chest.

"I'm cold," moaned Sherlock. He was in so much pain he couldn't be bothered to try and control this.

"Wait," John murmured. He waited until he slowed to a stop at a red light before turning around and picking up a jacket from the back seat. He dropped it on Sherlock's knee.

"Put that over yourself."

Instead of draping it over himself, Sherlock put it on. It was a brown, cracked leather jacket with a cream fur lining. It was too short for Sherlock, especially on his long arms, but it was far too baggy around his shoulders. John obviously had much bigger muscles than him- or he did at one time. Sherlock struggled to see John wearing something like this now; the image of it made Sherlock snigger.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," John grumbled, obviously guessing what Sherlock was thinking. "Don't worry, I haven't worn it for ages. I got it as a welcome home present last year," he explained, his mind elsewhere.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John as he pulled the jacket together across his stomach.

"Welcome home present? From who?" Sherlock was more bothered about who was close enough to John to have given him a present , rather than where he had returned from.

"Sister," he muttered.

Sherlock smiled that it wasn't from a girlfriend. "Where were you returning from?"

John suddenly seemed to realise what he'd been talking about and pulled his mind away from the road.

"Er..." he sighed, knowing there was no point in lying. "Afghanistan. I was a military doctor."

Sherlock frowned. John must be older than he thought.

"So you're about 50?" he asked, his mind drifting from the pain in his chest.

John scoffed. "Fifty?! Do I look fifty?"

Sherlock opened his mouth smiling.

"Actually, don't answer that," John laughed.

There was a pause.

"No, but really, how old are you?" Sherlock asked, seriously again.

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because I'm in so much pain right now I think I could possibly be dying. You may never see me again," Sherlock said in a melodramatic theatre manner. "How would you live with yourself, John? Knowing that you'd never told me the only thing I ever wanted to know about you. How could-"

"Alright alright I get the point. 26," John interrupted.

"Oh," Sherlock said, surprised. "I thought you'd have to be older than that to have gone to Afghanistan already."

John smiled sadly. "I came back early."

"You didn't like it?"

John looked at him incredulously. "Who enjoys war? Anyway, it's not that I disliked it, I just decided I wanted to teach people instead."

Sherlock nodded and looked out of the window. He wanted to keep talking but the pain in his chest was almost unbearable. John glanced at him.

"Almost there now," he said. His voice had changed back to being quiet and soft like it was when he had checked Sherlock's breathing.

This seemed to unsettle Sherlock even more- he whimpered and shuffled in his seat.

"Don't you like hospitals?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock shook his head then realised John's eyes were on the road.

"No," he whispered. "Mycroft used to make me go all the time."  
>John frowned. "Why?"<p>

"Various... reasons," he said, gasping a little. "I got drugged... and sexually abused. Then I lost a lot of blood from self-harm... then I drugged myself..."

John looked at Sherlock with his eyebrows pointing up in the middle. He looked at the maturity in Sherlock's face and realised now where it had come from.

"Hospitals bring bad memories," Sherlock whispered.

John reached an arm across and let his hand fall onto Sherlock's leg, just above his knee.

"It'll be okay. I'll stay with you and make sure everything's okay," John said, trying to smile.

"Promise me you won't call my brother?"

"Sherlock, you're under 18 you need a parent or guardian with-"

"You can be my guardian," Sherlock interrupted breathlessly.

"But I'm-"

"My parents... live in Northumberland. I live with Mycroft... he's working... important." Sherlock was gasping more and more frequently. "I don't-"

"Okay okay, Sherlock. I'll be your guardian. Just take some deep breaths."

Sherlock breathed in as deeply as he could and got a waft of leather from the jacket he was wearing. It was leather with a coating of John. John's smell was like sweet pine mixed with a tangy aftershave. Sherlock knew John must have been lying about when he last wore the jacket- it smelt exactly the same as he does now.

When the car pulled up Sherlock shrugged the jacket off and shivered as he opened the door.

"Wait there, Sherlock," John ordered, getting out and going round to Sherlock's door.

Sherlock ignored him and started getting out by himself. John sighed and took hold of his arm.

"I can manage," Sherlock objected, but he couldn't make himself shake John off. His hand was a pleasant lukewarm that cradled Sherlock's upper arm softly.

John didn't listen to Sherlock and shut his door for him before holding him with both hands as they walked into the A&E room.

When they got in John leaned up to Sherlock's ear.

"Go and sit down, I'll sort it," he murmured.

Sherlock smiled as John's warm breath made his ear tingle, but he did as he was told and reluctantly sat down.

John explained to the receptionist how bad Sherlock's chest was, having checked it himself. She asked for his name and who John was.

"He's called William Sherlock Scott Holmes. And I'm his tutor at university. His parents are in Northumberland so I brought him," John told her.

"He should have a parent or carer with him," the nurse protested.

"He lives with his brother but he works for the government and-"

"Here." Sherlock had left his chair and come to join John at the front desk. He handed the nurse a card with a government watermark on to prove it. She nodded and looked at Sherlock.

"I think you ought to see a doctor right away," she told him. She motioned for them to follow her down a hallway.

John smiled reassuringly at Sherlock and put a hand on his back. There was something satisfying about feeling Sherlock's upper body through the thin cotton shirts he always wore. He couldn't keep his bloody hands off him.

The receptionist left them when she'd dropped them off at a room with a doctor in. The doctor smiled at them and told Sherlock to lay on the green recliner at the back of the room. Sherlock looked at John as though to ask whether he should trust this random woman who claimed to be a doctor. John nodded and Sherlock laid down.

Doctor Westwood checked over Sherlock's chest, just as John had done, and pulled a face.

"What?" grunted Sherlock, looking up.

"How exactly did this happen..." She looked at her file, "William?"

Sherlock looked around desperately for inspiration. "Well, I just sort of-"

"Tell the truth, Sherlock," John said as he sat beside him.

Sherlock sighed. "I got hit in the chest... then it happened again... and it hurt and I couldn't breathe... " He was becoming breathless. "Then my chest became... tight and today... I got hit and now..."

Dr Westwood nodded as though she clearly understood everything just from Sherlock's panting ramble.

"It sounds like you might have broken a rib. Usually we have to push down to see if it hurts, but there is a possibility that your rib is sticking into your lung, so pushing on it could be really dangerous," she explained.

Sherlock closed his eyes and opened them slowly in reply. It was all he could manage right now.

"So instead, just for now, I'll take your blood pressure and give you some painkillers, then we'll go through to the x-ray room," Dr Westwood told him.

Once she had sorted Sherlock out, John pulled her to one side.

"Is he okay?" he asked, looking at Sherlock with concern in his eye.

She nodded. "His blood pressure is 179 over 75 which is pretty high for a boy his age."

"Yes, I know, I'm a doctor," John muttered, impatiently.

"However, it isn't concerning because this is normal for people who are in pain," she explained, ignoring John's sour remark.

"But what will happen after the x-ray? If his rib is sticking into his lung, I mean."

"He'll have an operation to pull the rib back up into its normal position. It's a simple operation, highly unlikely any problem would occur."

John nodded solemnly and went back over to Sherlock.

"Ready for the x-ray?" he asked, as though he was asking a little boy.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't talk to me like that."

"Oh the painkillers are working then," John grumbled, letting Sherlock get up by himself.

In the x-ray lab, John had to stand behind a screen with Dr Westwood whilst Sherlock laid down on a large table. His shirt had to be taken off fully for this bit. John let the corner of his mouth slip upwards as he watched Sherlock pull his purple cotton shirt off.

Afterwards, all three of them gathered round the screen to see the issue.

"Yes, as you can see there, there is a large break in the rib and it's pointing inwards," Dr Westwood explained, pointing with her pen and frowning.

Sherlock pulled a face at John as if to say 'we're not blind'. John sniggered and shook his head.

"So I'm afraid an operation to correct the structure of the rib will be necessary," she said, turning to Sherlock. "I'll go and find out when the surgeons are available, but it will have to happen today. It's too dangerous for you to risk getting hit again."

Dr Westwood led them back to her office before leaving to go and arrange a time with the surgeons. John and Sherlock were left alone.

"Sherlock," John said softly, almost pityingly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock smirked. "Why would I tell you?"

"You have a broken rib pushing into your lung, you should've told me because it's bloody dangerous," John hissed, sounding angry now.

"I didn't know it was broken."

"You know what I mean."

Sherlock sighed. "You knew people have been hitting me. You saw my blood, you saw my bruises."  
>John twisted his lips thoughtfully and looked at Sherlock. "I hoped it wasn't from that. I hoped I'd got it wrong."<p>

Sherlock looked away from him.

"Hey, look at me," whispered John, letting his eyes settle on Sherlock's.

Sherlock turned and reluctantly let his eyes get sucked into John's gaze.

"Who did this?"

"Not now John," Sherlock grunted adamantly.

"If not now then when? I can't just sit back and let people get away with picking on you just because you're different."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Because I'm different?"

"Well... I- what I mean is..." John stuttered. "You're younger than everyone else here."

"Course you did," Sherlock smiled, rolling his eyes.

"Stop trying to change the subject."  
>"You're the one who changed it!"<p>

"No I'm not!"

"You changed the subject by starting on about how 'substandard' I am!"

"I never used the word 'substandard', Sherlock, I just-"

"Boys, please. There are other patients in this hospital."

They both turned to see a young female doctor standing at the doorway with a sour expression.

"Thank you," she snapped, turning and walking out.

Sherlock and John looked at each other and couldn't hold back their laughter.

"See now you've got us giggling like schoolgirls," John muttered, shaking his head.

Sherlock smiled at him and breathed deeply- the laughter had knocked the breath out of him.

"Are you okay?" John checked, placing a hand on Sherlock's bare, pointy shoulder. To John's strong warm hand, it was like touching metal in the winter.

Sherlock nodded and sat back into John's touch.

"Will you tell me who did this to you?" John asked, lowering his voice to make Sherlock understand he was talking directly to him.

"I don't think it matters," he told John. "What's done is done."

John sighed.

Then Dr Westwood returned and they both turned again.

"The surgeons are ready now," she smiled brightly.

They walked to a different area of the hospital, Sherlock and John silent as Dr Westwood talked.

"You're lucky these surgeons are free. Sometimes for rib operations people have to wait a lot longer," she said unnecessarily. "But anyway... the operation will last around an hour and you should wake up an hour after it's over."

Sherlock nodded at everything she said until they got there. Then he and John nodded in goodbye at

each other before Sherlock went into the operating theatre. John watched as they put Sherlock to sleep. Then the blinds were drawn and John was left waiting outside.


	7. Chapter 7

_This is my last chapter before I go back to school tomorrow so chapters will probably be shorter or less frequent this week. Next week, I'll be back on school campus which will allow me more time to write, so hopefully updates will be back to normal then! Thanks always!_

"Mycroft," Sherlock groaned as he woke up from the anaesthetic.

John smiled at him. "You told me not to call Mycroft, you numpty."

It took Sherlock a few seconds to recognise John's voice. He opened his eyes and sat up.

"Force of habit," he grumbled, scratching his head.

The throbbing breathlessness in his chest had subsided into a sore ache. Sherlock looked down at the stitches.

"Does it hurt?" John asked him quietly.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not really. I can breathe now."

John nodded and smiled, looking at Sherlock intently.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, but he couldn't help but smile.

"Nothing," John said softly, still beaming at him.

He pulled his chair closer to Sherlock's bed and placed a hand on his.

Sherlock jerked away and stared John, frowning.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. He rubbed at the hand John had just held as though it burnt him. John sat back, rubbing his neck.

"Sorry, I thought-"

"Well you thought wrong," Sherlock snarled, edging away from him. "You might be... like that, but I'm not."

"Like what?" asked John, glaring at Sherlock.

"Oh don't get all protective about it, you know what I mean," he scoffed.

John sighed. "If you don't want me here, I'll just go. I already missed all afternoon of work because of you."

Sherlock felt a stab in his chest- not from his rib this time, but from John's words. He had no idea emotional pain could hurt like this... and no idea why...

"Don't act like it's my fault," Sherlock growled, fighting back. "You're the one who just... just... just touched me!"

"I was trying to comfort you!" John yelled.

A doctor put his head round the door, frowning.

"Keep the noise down in here please," he grunted before leaving.

But it wasn't funny this time. Sherlock carried on childishly.

"I wouldn't have asked you to come if I knew you were going to be like this," he hissed.

"You didn't ask me to come, I brought you because I knew there was something wrong with you!"

"Something wrong with me? There's something wrong with you. Do you fondle all of your students, or should I consider myself 'special'?"

"I didn't fondle you, I barely bloody touched you! You're twisting it Sherlock and you know it."

Sherlock scowled at John and lowered his voice again. "Go talk to your sister. She's at the pub again."

John glared dangerously and leaned close to Sherlock. "Don't you dare bring my sister into this."

Pause.

"You know, I should've listened to Turner. He warned me about you, they all did. They told me you'd be trouble and they were bloody right. No wonder everyone beats you up," John growled at him. Then he realised what he'd just said and took a step back, feeling guilty already.

Sherlock shook his head. "I was wrong to think you were different."

"Sherlock, I did-"

"Oh just fuck off... faggot."

John took another step back looking absolutely livid. He raised a hand and Sherlock flinched away bracing himself. But when nothing happened, he opened one eye and John was scratching his neck, looking in the other direction. He looked like he was going to say something, but instead he walked out, barging past a small nurse who was just about to enter Sherlock's room.

"Oh, Dr Watson!" she called after him.

John turned reluctantly.

"If you're leaving now you need to take these with you," she held up a small pharmacy bag. "They're William's painkillers, it's the responsibility of the guardian to take them and make sure he gets them."  
>John didn't answer for a moment.<p>

"Dr Watson? Is that okay with you?"

He took the bag. "Yes... yes of course, sorry."

John smiled briefly and went on his way.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands. Why did he have to say that? Why did he have to take it too far?

_He touched your hand,_ he reminded himself. _But then again... you liked it. _

Sherlock shook his head to try and dismiss the thought, but he couldn't deny that John's touch made him feel safe and happy. His rugged, athletic fingers protected Sherlock's feeble ones like a proud lioness guarding her cubs. The way John's thin pout spread out into a giggly smile was enough to make Sherlock's mind crumble like a cookie. Then John's cheeks would crinkle and his eyes would glimmer like a lake in a summer breeze, his eyebrows flattening out from their usual worried scrunch. That was the thing about John's smile- it was so satisfying. He always looked like he really meant it, like he could burst into laughter at any second.

Whilst Sherlock was thinking all of this he found himself smiling too. He did like John and he knew it, but it was too much to handle. He was too suspicious, too paranoid. It was like he suspected John to turn out to be a fantasy at any given moment, even though he knew that was impossible. Sherlock had always been taken advantage of, and it was too much to trust that John genuinely liked him and cared for him. Sherlock liked John a lot. And John wouldn't get so angry in their arguments if he didn't care, would he?

_'Faggot'. That's rich coming from you. You obviously like him... like that, _Sherlock told himself reluctantly.

But then again, John _had_ touched him without permission. Sherlock knew he was being ridiculous, it was only his hand after all. But that's how it had started when he was 14. It started with the touch of a hand, then a stroke on the arm...

_He apologised to you,_ Sherlock argued with himself. _If he really wanted to hurt you, he wouldn't have apologised... and he wouldn't have brought you to hospital._

Maybe it was time for Sherlock to apologise to John...

Sherlock was discharged from hospital the next morning, but instead of calling Mycroft or his parents, he took a taxi back to university. It was mid-morning when he got there, so he took this opportunity to get a shower and a change of clothes. Afterwards, he checked his timetable: he didn't have classes until after lunch. He decided to go to Med2- he needed his laptop and painkillers.

In Harley block this morning, Donovan wasn't sat at the front desk. Instead it was a young man, not much older than Sherlock. He had floppy brown hair that hung over his stern stare. Another one of the secretaries was showing him how to do something on the computer- he must be an apprentice.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, looking at the man questioningly.

The secretary next to him sighed. "Holmes, this is our new apprentice, Phillip Anderson," she murmured.

Sherlock nodded his head. "I'd make sure he knows how to file. He doesn't actually have qualifications, Donovan got him the job."

She frowned. "Is this true, Phillip?"

Anderson looked blank as Sherlock grinned before walking out.

He ran up the stairs like usual and opened the door to Med2. John was sat by himself a few rows back. His pile of marking was considerably bigger than usual- Sherlock's fault, no doubt.

"Come to apologise, have you?" John asked, dropping his pen onto the table and folding his arms.

Sherlock shook his head. If John was going to be unreasonable, he would be too.

"You should be the one apologising," he said, sitting down.

John scoffed, moving over to sit next to Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's true. You can't just go around touching people's hands whenever you want."

"We're gonna do this again, are we?" John asked.

Sherlock was silent and looked away.

"Sherlock I didn't mean to scare you," John said quietly. "I didn't think it would bother you. I'd been... touching your arms and leg and stuff before then, and you didn't object."

"I was in pain, it was the least of my worries," Sherlock murmured, only half-lying.

John nodded. "Okay... I'm sorry. I'm sorry for scaring you but what you said to me wasn't acceptable. And I'm not just saying that because I'm your tutor or because it really pissed me off. I'm saying that because if you said it to somebody else they could report you and it is a criminal offence."

Sherlock looked up at John and bit his lip. "I know, I shouldn't have said it."

John waited then frowned. "So..."

"So what?"

"Aren't you going to apologise?"

"I don't do apologies," Sherlock stated.

"You are kidding me," John said, his voice raised slightly.

"Nope."

"You can't just not apologise, Sherlock, that's not how it works."

"It's how it works with me."

"Yeah, it would work with you, wouldn't it?! Because you're Sherlock bloody Holmes and you don't give a shit what anything else thinks!"

"Oh that's what we're doing is it?" Sherlock yelled, turning to John to face him properly. "That's how we're doing this now? Making fun of each other?"

"You shouldn't have started with the homophobic abuse!" John shouted back, even though they were only half a metre away from each other.

"Don't talk to me about abuse. You know nothing! You're just a stupid adrenalin junkie who thinks he can understand everyone and everything."

"Adrenalin junkie?! If I was an adrenalin junkie I wouldn't be talking to you. You're the most boring person I've ever met," John lied, staring at Sherlock defensively.

Sherlock stomped his foot indignantly. "_Me?!_ You're saying _I'm _the most boring person you've ever met?"

"How can you even deny that?! You think you're not boring? Go on then, Sherlock. Give me an adrenalin rush!"

Sherlock grabbed the lapels of John's blazer and yanked his shoulders forward, closing the gap between them. John's lips landed firmly on Sherlock's.

John's lips were sleek and silky against Sherlock's, moving with small, subtle movements. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and he let his hands drop from John's chest to his lap, whilst John lifted a hand to Sherlock's cheek, stroking it lightly. It was heaven: he could feel John's warmth taking over him, his smile merging into one with Sherlock's, his nose intimately brushing the side of Sherlock's.

Sherlock didn't want to move away when John pulled back, but he opened his eyes and released his mouth anyway. They looked at each other, both red faced and beaming. Neither of them spoke for a while, but Sherlock suddenly realised their fingers were entwined.

"Did it work?" Sherlock asked, penetrating the silence like a gunshot in the night.

"Sorry?" John replied, looking up at him.

"Did I give you an adrenalin rush?"

John giggled. "Maybe just a tiny one."

Sherlock giggled back and paused. "Do you really think I'm boring?"

John shook his head. "I was making stuff up. My comebacks are terrible."  
>Sherlock laughed harder this time and stood up. John stood up too.<p>

"Where are you going?" John asked him, disappointed.

"Nowhere," he murmured. He let go of John's hands and picked up his stuff that he'd left the previous day. "I was just getting these."

John nodded, then suddenly realised something.

"Oh God Sherlock. I just broke the law, you're only 17!"

Sherlock laughed loudly and shook his head. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm serious, I could lose my job," John protested, rubbing his forehead and looking at the floor.

Sherlock went back over to their seats and lifted John's chin with one slender index finger.

"Nobody will know. And I'm 18 in a couple of months. Then it'll be fine," Sherlock promised him.

"So this is... a long term thing?" John asked, hopeful.

Sherlock shrugged. "I assumed so, but if you don't-"

"No, that's not what I meant. I mean, I thought you didn't want to be... with me," John finished lamely.

"Stop panicking," Sherlock smiled. He leant his head down and kissed John's soft lips briefly.

"You're so different like this," John pointed out when they pulled away. He still had a hand on Sherlock's cheek.

"And you're a dirty liar," Sherlock murmured, smiling. "This is the second time you've touched my face without asking."


	8. Chapter 8

_Short chapter! Sorry! School is taking up most of my time right now and I'm not feeling great either. I'll try and get some more uploaded tomorrow night, otherwise it'll be Saturday before the next update. Hope you're enjoying it and thanks for sticking with me so far. Keep reading!_

_Continued_

John laughed and pulled his hand away from Sherlock's cheek. They stood in silence for a few minutes.

"It's lunch time, you know," John said, studying his watch. "You should go to the canteen, get something to eat."

Sherlock smirked. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't _eat_."  
>"What do you mean you don't <em>eat<em>?" John asked, frowning at him.

"I mean I don't _eat_," Sherlock said simply.

"You can't just not _eat_."  
>"Well I never <em>eat<em>."

"Okay before we carry on with this conversation, can we stop saying eat like that?" John smiled, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There's nothing to carry on."

"There obviously is, Sherlock," John said adamantly.

"Don't you ever just take a statement as it is? You always want to get to the bottom of everything don't you? You're like a bloody... detective," Sherlock grumbled.

John groaned. "Don't start, Sherlock... How often do you eat?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment. "I don't really have a schedule."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"I dunno... what day is it?" he asked, dead pan.

"Thursday..." John said, not seeing the relevance in this at all.

"Oh! Tuesday evening. I had risotto," Sherlock replied, looking at John expectantly.

"What? Tuesday evening? That's the last time you- Jesus bloody Christ Sherlock, you need to eat!" John exclaimed, making Sherlock sit down.

"Oh stop fussing, I'm fine."

Now that John thought about it, Sherlock was incredibly thin. His cheekbones and shoulders looked fit to split his skin right open. The bone on his wrists stuck out so much you could almost hold one properly like a doorknob. John looked up and down at him worriedly.

"Stop looking so anxious," Sherlock said, letting his hand drift up to John's neck and jaw line. He stroked it with his thumb.

John's features softened and he sat beside Sherlock.

"Why don't you eat?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I just don't get hungry that often. And digestion isn't good for the brain, slows it down."

"You still have to eat or you end up with all sorts of problems," John said, taking hold of both his hands.

This sounded so much like a visit to the doctor Sherlock couldn't contain his laughter. He turned away, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Hey, it's not funny," John muttered, pulling Sherlock's face round to look at him.

Sherlock shook his head and put on an over the top serious face.

"Of course not, Dr Watson."

"Oh shut up," laughed John, shaking him.

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him, holding on to the moment as long as possible. When they broke apart, John's face had contorted back into an anxious flurry.

Sherlock sighed. "John! What's the matter with you?"

"You were in hospital, Sherlock. If we're going to be- together, I want to know who did that to you," John whispered, staring straight into Sherlock's pupils.

"Can't you let it drop?"

"No. No I can't, so we might as well have it out now and get it out of the way. That way I won't be bugging you about it forever."

"Fine," Sherlock snapped, leaning back from him. "Carl Thomas, Stanley Davidson, Sebastian Moran, Douglas Malvo and Charlie Farrington."

John raised his eyebrows. "All of them?"

"Over a period of time, yes. Like I said, each time they beat me up it got worse and worse."

"We should call your brother."

"Leave it out," Sherlock grunted, shoving John's shoulder with one hand.

"Then I'll have a word with them and-"

"You'll do no such thing. If they find out I told you it'll make things worse. Look... I don't mind getting hit that much. Yes, it hurts. Yes it's not the most comfortable and pleasant thing to experience and yes it's a massive inconvenience. But it gives me something to think about, it occupies my mind, it gives me a thrill. And of course I hate it afterwards, but there's something in it that satisfies me. So if it really bothers you when I get hurt then I'm sorry. Well actually I'm not, but what I mean is... I just don't think you should let it get to you. I've been through much worse, trust me. And if the reason you want it to stop is because you're worried about me then don't. I'm fine."

John listened intently to all of this, soaking up every word that tumbled off the edges of Sherlock's lips. He nodded.

"Okay."

Sherlock nodded back in thanks and stood up to leave. He hadn't talked to anyone for that long in years (except Lestrade, maybe). It was bloody exhausting.

"Can I have my painkillers?"

John nodded again and fetched them from a drawer in his front desk.

"You have to take one three times a day." He paused. "With food."

"Nice try," grunted Sherlock, snatching the bag away from him. "I've had these things before and you don't need food."

Sherlock stuffed the tablets into his bag before gathering up his belongings. He stroked John's cheek before heading for the door.

"Sherlock..." John called.

Sherlock turned.

"Don't take too many of those, will you?" he asked sheepishly.

Sherlock looked down. "I'll see you tomorrow John."

As soon as Sherlock was out of the room he rushed to his tree and sat against it, even though the floor was intensely cold on his thighs and the wind was whipping his hair against his ears. He was so overwhelmed with everything, he didn't even know what his feelings were right now. They were flying around and clashing like paper aeroplanes colliding madly.

_I kissed John Watson_, Sherlock repeated to himself over as he giggled at the excitement of it. _I kissed John Watson and he wants me too._

It made Sherlock giddy, thinking about it. John had asked him who had hurt him. He cared about him, he wanted to help him. Nobody had ever liked him like that before. Nobody had cared about him before- only Lestrade, and family didn't count.

But then Sherlock started to think about what John had said just as he was leaving. The words pounded in his ears like a fog horn. John didn't want Sherlock to take too many painkillers, but it was always hard to resist them. When he was younger, he had bruised himself completely intentionally just so he could get his hands on these things, or even morphine.

_Maybe John could be your drug_, Sherlock told himself. _He can be what you need._

Sherlock decided on this, but it hurt him just thinking about not getting off on his painkillers. He didn't see any problem with taking them, but John had specifically told him not to. And no matter how many times Sherlock told himself that John's opinion didn't matter, that he had been ignoring instructions since he was a little kid, he couldn't shake the feeling that he should respect John now that they were... what? Partners?

Sherlock bent his head down into his hands to think before taking a painkiller. Just one. For now.


	9. Chapter 9

_So here's the next chapter! Before I go ahead and give a content warning, I just wanted to take this chance to dedicate this chapter to a very close friend of mine. She's encouraged me and stuck with me for a very long time. She even helped me write this chapter (unknowingly), so she might even recognise parts of it. Anyway, I know that you'll be reading this at some point, friend, so thank you. _

_Content note: Contains insinuation and mention of drug abuse, with no vivid description. _

On Friday, Sherlock turned up to John's medicine class unscathed.

"You're late, Sherlock," John stated loudly, speaking in his classroom voice. It was true enough, but why John had even mentioned this he didn't know- he never commented when everyone else was late.

The whole class turned to look at the door. Sherlock stopped.

"Yes, I know."

John put his pen down and folded his arms. "Excuse me?"

The class were looking between them like they were watching a tennis rally.

"Would you prefer it if I missed the whole class?" Sherlock asked, getting annoyed that John was making a fool of him in front of everyone.

"If you're going to come in and disrupt the class then yes," John sniped.

Sherlock shrugged and raised his eyebrows before going next door into Med1. He had been looking forward to seeing John, perhaps even 'excited'. That's why he was late. He'd tried to make the effort by choosing his outfit as opposed to throwing on the closest thing to him. He'd finished up by choosing just the usual, but Sherlock had still tried his best.

_If he wants to be a pompous arse then let him, _Sherlock convinced himself. Then he realised something. _Why am I still sat here then?_

Sherlock rested his forehead down on the table. Because the truth was, he hadn't stopped thinking about John since their lips met the previous day. He hadn't stopped thinking about how sleek John's thin lips were, how moist his gums were when their lips had locked, how magical it felt for their tongues to interact, to stroke each other's teeth. It gave Sherlock such a rush in his chest his breathing became fast and uncontrollable, his arms shook nervously and his eyes quivered shut.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to get in a mess again. Sherlock had slept badly last night, not being able to get to sleep for hours despite his aching fatigue, and waking up at regular intervals to find his breathing fire up again when he thought about John.

But now he felt angry, too. John had been so nice to him over the last couple of days. So why had he humiliated Sherlock by treating him like a child in front of a room of easily amused idiots? It baffled Sherlock how complex John's mind was, despite him being... not the smartest of people. Instead of wallowing about this, Sherlock took out his laptop and emailed Lestrade with the most earnest desperation that he got a reply within minutes. Lestrade had sent Sherlock a frustratingly mundane case about the murder of a female divorcee. It did, however, prove to be much harder than Sherlock had originally expected and he spent a good 30 minutes puzzling over it before giving in for a while. Instead, he knocked back two painkillers and texted Mycroft.

Forgot to tell you, I broke a rib. -SH

Mycroft also replied instantly.

That just slipped your mind did it? -MH

Yes. Problem? -SH

Dare I ask how you did it? -MH

You can if you want but it won't make a difference. -SH

Did you go to hospital? -MH

Yes. -SH

Painkillers? -MH

Of course. -SH

Has Lestrade sent you any cases? -MH

Sherlock laughed to himself. Mycroft knew it was the only thing that occupied Sherlock's mind, but Sherlock realised he could put this to his advantage.

Need to speak to him about one. I need his number. -SH

Fine. -MH

Within a few minutes, Lestrade's number had been delivered and saved to Sherlock's phone. Just as Sherlock was about to call Lestrade to piss him off, the door to Med1 opened and John walked in, smiling lightly.

"Hey," John murmured, coming over to sit beside Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled at him. "Don't 'hey' at me. What the fuck did you call that?" He indicated towards next door.

"Calm down. I just didn't want to seem too nice to you, so nobody would get suspicious," John explained, putting his hands up innocently.

"And you couldn't have done that in any way other than making me look like an idiot?" Sherlock spat, crossing his legs and glaring indignantly.

"You care about your reputation?" John scoffed incredulously.

"No. But just because I don't care about it, it doesn't mean you get permission to try and make me feel small."

"That wasn't my intention," John said, honestly enough.

Sherlock just looked away. The box of tablets on the table caught John's eye and he snatched them quickly, emptying out the contents. There was four missing and John shook his head, sighing angrily.

"What did I say to you?" he said, throwing the box down.

"I don't know, probably something about not wanting me in your class..."

"I'm not joking around Sherlock. I am a qualified doctor and I told you not to take too many of these."

"That's nothing compared to what I used to have so save your breath," Sherlock murmured, grabbing the tablets and stuffing them in his bag. He looked up at John's face and waited for him to object.

"I was actually going to ask you something today, Sherlock," John muttered, pulling his chair closer.

"You _were_?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I don't seem to be in your good books at the moment."

"Just ask me," Sherlock said, softening his tone.

"My sister wants me to come over for dinner tonight, to meet her partner," John started.

"That's not a question," Sherlock pointed out, raising both of his eyebrows.

"Yes I know it's not a bloody question," John muttered. "I wanted to know... Will you come with me?"

"Me?" frowned Sherlock. "We don't even know each other that well."

"I know. And I know it's soon but my sister and I are on shaky terms and I need someone there with me."

Sherlock sniggered. "Intimidated by her boyfriend?"

"Girlfriend," John corrected.

"Oh," Sherlock said quietly.

"Don't look like that, there's nothing wrong with being a lesbian. Or gay," John snapped.

"I know," Sherlock grinned, stroking John's cheek with the back of his hand.

John blushed. "Oh shut up."

Sherlock laughed and kissed him. The rush was the same as last time. He pulled away and took a deep breath.

"You know what?" John murmured, thinking it was his fault for asking about the dinner. "You were right, it's a daft idea. I'll go and see my sister by myself."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, I'm coming with you."

John looked at Sherlock wide-eyed. "Serious?"

Sherlock nodded. His anger had drained away the moment their lips had met.

"If she's showing off her girlfriend, you should show of yours. Boyfriend that is," Sherlock smirked, resting his forehead against John's.

"Sherlock, you're still very young. Are you sure you want to go through with this?" John asked, resisting the urge to tilt his head so their lips could touch.

"Stop being such a drama queen, it's just a dinner. I really don't-"

"No, Sherlock. I didn't mean the dinner, I meant me. You just called me your boyfriend," John said.

Sherlock leaned away. "Did I misunderstand?"

"No," promised John, pulling him into his chest. "But you have a full life ahead of you. Do you really want to waste one of your precious, young, Friday nights with my alcoholic sister and her girlfriend?"

"Well, when you put it like that..." Sherlock joked. "You're only a few years older than me. And besides, Friday night is prime time for me to get beat up."

John looked down guiltily. He should've phoned Sherlock's parents about that, or at least his brother.

"I'm staying with you, and I'm going with you to this dinner," said Sherlock, holding John's fingers and kissing them.

"Thanks," John smiled. "But there's a few conditions."

Sherlock groaned. "Which are?"

"Be polite," John started.

"Oh for goodness sake."

"No gay slurs being thrown around."

"You're seriously telling _me_ that?"

"And finally, do _not_ let on that you're my student."

Sherlock huffed at this last one. "Why?"

"Because... they'll think I'm a weirdo," John mumbled.

"Only if they know I'm 17. Just tell them I'm older," Sherlock suggested.

"Okay, fine," John agreed grudgingly.

Sherlock shook his head. "And you got at me for caring about my reputation."

"It's not a matter of reputation, Sherlock. It's a matter of being employed and not getting a criminal record. I don't know who my sister has met. She could feel really strongly about the matter for all I know," John explained. "Don't take it personally."

"I'm not. I've got chemistry in a minute, where shall I meet you tonight?"

"Med2 at 6, okay?"

Sherlock nodded and kissed John's lips briefly before getting up.

"What kind of kiss was that?" argued John, pouting.

"A goodbye kiss," Sherlock stated, walking to the door.

John huffed angrily so Sherlock turned and marched back inside. He grabbed his collar and snogged him deeply before throwing John away from him.

John stumbled, and took a deep breath.

"That's more like it!"


	10. Chapter 10

At 5:45pm that night, Sherlock put on fresh clothes to get ready for the dinner. He'd easily decided on his usual black high-waist trousers, but he had spent a good 10 minutes choosing his shirt. Pretty much all that he owned were cotton button-ups which were all extremely similar. However, he ended up wearing a tight purple shirt, leaving the top button undone and rolling his sleeves up. Sherlock knew he looked at least a tiny bit attractive in it- it clung to his pointy ribs and flat stomach, showing off his abnormally slender figure perfectly. After he'd messed his hair up into a tousled heap, Sherlock sprayed on some aftershave from an unused bottle his mum had insisted he take to university with him, then left to meet John at Med2.

But as soon as Sherlock was down the steps outside, he was met head-on by Carl Thomas, Sebastian Moran and Douglas Malvo. Sherlock winced inaudibly before putting on a blank expression, seemingly not bothered that the gang was heading for him.

"Well well well..." Malvo grinned, standing in front of Sherlock with his arms crossed.

"Going somewhere, are you Holmes?" Moran asked also blocking Sherlock's way. "Didn't think you had a life."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't you have something better to do on a Friday night?"

"We're going out to get pissed, ain't that right boys?" Thomas said looking at his cronies. They nodded automatically. It was obvious they'd agree with any of the crap that spilled out of his mouth.

"But we're a bit early," Thomas continued. "So we thought you might provide us with some entertainment first."

Sherlock sighed, about to sit down and let them hit him, just like usual. But then he thought about the dinner with John and how much he wanted to go with him. He couldn't let John down, or his sister. It was obvious their relationship was dodgy at the best of times and Sherlock might prove to be a great support to John. Maybe this time, Sherlock should stand up to Carl and his mates. For John.

"Well I can't. I have somewhere I need to be and I have to go now," Sherlock said sternly.

"Oooo," sang Moran.

"Shut up," snapped Thomas, hitting Moran's stomach with the back of his hand. He turned to Sherlock, sizing him up. "Just who do you think you are, talking to us in that tone?"

Sherlock bit his lip.

"Come on lads, let's teach him a lesson," Thomas snarled, moving in on him.

"Hey, wait," grunted Malvo, sounding scared. Everyone turned to him.

"What?" demanded Thomas.

"Isn't that Watson up there?" Malvo hissed, pointing at the window in the Med block that John had watched Sherlock out of.

Sure enough, John was there, frowning down at them. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, knowing they wouldn't hurt him if a tutor was watching. They weren't kids anymore, but they knew the professors would get police involved if they found out.

"You're right, it is," Thomas grunted. He turned to Sherlock. "You got lucky this time Holmes."  
>He flicked his head in the opposite direction and Malvo and Moran followed him. Sherlock waited until they were out of sight before looking back up the window, but John was gone again, so he made his way over to medicine.<p>

When he got there, John was waiting in the main office downstairs. He was making polite conversation with the apprentice, Anderson. Sherlock scowled at John's smiling. He cleared his throat.

John turned. "Hi Sherlock. You ready?"

Anderson frowned at them. "You two going somewhere?"

"Extra tutoring," John said quickly, but Anderson still gave them suspicious looks. They were, after all, dressed in evening clothes.

John waved goodbye to Anderson and walked to his car with Sherlock.

"I saw them giving you a tough time out there. You're okay aren't you?" John asked when they were in the car. It was just as messy as a couple of days before.

Sherlock nodded, but other things were on his mind. "John?"

"Yeah?" John replied, looking worried at Sherlock's tone.

"Is this a date?"

John smiled. "Do you want it to be?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Do _you_?"

"It would be... acceptable for me, if it was."

Sherlock smirked. "Okay."

They sat quietly for a while before John started the niceties.

"Your hair looks great," he commented. "And that shirt..."

"Has you drooling like a golden retriever, " Sherlock smiled, looking over at him. John scowled and prodded his arm with a free hand.

It was a short drive and Sherlock was surprised at their destination.

"This is your sister's house?" he asked, incredulously.

They had pulled onto the drive of a large detached house. There was already two cars on the drive before John's- a small Ford Ka and a long mondeo. Sherlock deduced what he could from them.

John smiled and took Sherlock's hand, leading him to the door. When John knocked, the door opened almost immediately. And Sherlock nearly burst out laughing.

The woman holding the door open was literally a female version of John. She had shoulder-length blonde hair that fell around her perfectly, her eyes were a light brown mixed with blue, and her short snub nose stuck off her face softly. Her eyebrows were raised slightly and her mouth was open in an enthusiastic smile.

"Sherlock, this is Harry. Harry, Sherlock," John introduced them, smiling nervously.

"John!" Harry laughed. "You never told me you'd got yourself a toyboy!"

Sherlock scowled as John laughed sarcastically.

"He's not a toyboy. Now are we going inside or not?" John muttered.

"Of course..." Harry giggled, motioning inside. "Still... you did well for yourself there, Johnny, even I can see that," she said, looking Sherlock up and down.

Sherlock blushed and followed John inside to the living room. On one of the sofas was a young brunette lady, sat watching TV. Her features were much more pointy and protruding compared to Harry's soft, stubby ones. She looked up as the three of them entered.

"This is Jenny," Harry murmured, sitting next to her.

"Hi," Jenny smiled, reaching out to shake their hands. John introduced them both.

Sherlock and John sat on the other sofa, Sherlock biting his lip, not knowing what to say.

"Does that toyboy of yours ever talk, John? Or is he a mute?" Harry joked.

Jenny shook her head disapprovingly. "I'm sure John doesn't appreciate you calling Sherlock that."

"You're right, I don't," John grunted, glaring at Harry, who was still smiling.

She rolled her eyes. "Go on, Sherlock. Say something."

Sherlock sighed. "What do you want me to say?"

Harry and Jenny looked at each other, wide eyed.

"Bloody hell! His voice his deep!" Harry exclaimed, laughing. Even John smiled this time.

"Well yes, I am male," Sherlock snapped, folding his arms huffily.

"God John, why have you picked a hormone monster? How old is he, like 20?" Harry smirked.

Sherlock and John shared a glance, sniggering at the irony. John ruffled Sherlock's already messy hair before kissing his cheek.

"Well?" Jenny asked, eyebrows raised.

"I'm 18," Sherlock murmured, smiling broadly now.

Harry and Jenny burst out laughing again.

"Alright," John laughed, shaking his head. "Fun's over. Where's the bloody food?"

Sherlock suddenly realised: dinner. He had been so focused on spending the night with John, he forgot it entailed eating a meal. Perhaps that's why John invited him in the first place, to 'feed him up'. It was about time for Sherlock to eat a proper meal again, but he wasn't sure how much he could manage.

"I'll go and check it," Harry said, getting up. Jenny let her eyes follow Harry until she'd fully left the room. John saw this and knew Jenny was in love with his sister.

"How big, exactly, is this meal?" Sherlock asked, frowning at John.

"Big enough to feed you for a month, so go steady," John said, leaning into him.

"You actually don't want me to finish it?" Sherlock asked, frowning more.

"I've thought all of this through, Sherlock. Just eat all you can, okay? Don't feel obliged to clear the plate, just because we're at someone's house."

Sherlock failed to understand why that would make him feel obliged, but he nodded his head anyway.

When Harry came back in she was holding a piece of paper and a pen.

"What's that?" John asked, looking at her suspiciously.

"The agenda," Harry smiled.

"Agenda?" Sherlock groaned. "What the hell does this entail?"

"Calm it teenager, you'll find out. But first, before dinner: spin the bottle."

Sherlock and John each raised a brow. They were in for an interesting night...


	11. Chapter 11

"I'm not playing that infantile game," Sherlock snapped, going into a huff again.

This made Harry more amused. "Infantile? What gives you the right to call anything infantile? You're just a kid yourself."

"I'm not just a kid. I'm taller than you and I'm almost certainly, actually no, I'm most definitely a lot more intelligent than you. And I don't want to play your stupid games," Sherlock argued, glaring at Harry. It was still hard to look at her without seeing John.

"The only reason you don't want to play is because you're scared of kissing a woman," Harry said, shrugging.

Sherlock stood up and glowered at her. John and Jenny exchanged a worried glance. Whilst Sherlock and Harry argued, John slipped closer to Jenny.

"How much has she drank?" he asked her.

Jenny shrugged. "I saw her drink a glass of red earlier, but that's all. Maybe when she went into the kitchen-"

They both jumped as they heard a noise like something scraping across the floor. Sherlock had been pushed onto the sofa, forcing it to fall backwards.

"Harry!" John yelled, standing up.

Harry just laughed. "He's scared of kissing me. Let me show him."

She stepped forward and fell down next to Sherlock. He suddenly hunched up, cowering.

"You're scaring him," Jenny murmured, tugging on Harry's arm. She turned to look at Jenny and suddenly seemed to come to her senses.

"Sherlock... sorry," she said. "I was just having some fun, you know?"

Sherlock nodded unsurely as Harry got up to sort out dinner.

"Thanks," John murmured to Jenny. "You're good for her."

Jenny nodded before following Harry into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Sherl," John said, kissing his forehead. "Do you want to leave?"

Sherlock was silent as he sat up properly. Then he laughed.

"What?" asked John, frowning.

"Did you just call me '_Sherl_'?" he sniggered.

"Funny," John grunted, smiling. "I'm trying to be nice to you, can't you accept that?"

"Apparently not."

They smiled at each other before kissing. Sherlock felt a rush in his chest and breathed out shakily.

"Hey, it's okay," John said, pulling back. "Why are you breathing so heavily?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted, ruffling his hair.

"I'm sorry... did you just say you 'don't know'?" John asked, amazed. "When do you ever say you don't know something?"

"Oh shut it," Sherlock grumbled.

"Do you want to leave?" John asked again.

"No. I'm not being the reason for you missing out on a night with your sister," Sherlock grunted.

"Bloody hell. You're being considerate tonight, are you feeling okay?" John smirked.

"Yes, but if I force you to leave you'll be pissed with me."  
>"I won't," John said, softly now. "I didn't even want to come."<p>

Sherlock looked at him. "Where will we go if we leave?"

"Home, I suppose. I'll take you back to your dorm then I'll go home."  
>Sherlock looked down, disappointed. "I don't want to go back yet."<p>

_I don't want to leave you yet._

John thought carefully. "We could... I mean you could come to my house for a bit. If you like."

"Yes," Sherlock said suddenly, getting up.

"Wha- yes? You don't wanna think about this, Sherlock?" John asked, grabbing his hand.

"Think about it? Why?"

"Well..." John bit his lip. "I don't know. When you go to someone's house it's a big step. One thing can lead to another," he pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. "You suggested it. Come on, let's go before they come back."

John nodded and put Sherlock's coat on him quickly.

They heard footsteps coming back to the living room and ran down the hall and out of the door.

"Get in, quickly," John laughed when they reached the car. He backed out of the drive quickly and drove away.

As they laughed mischievously together, John's phone started ringing.

"Get that will you, Sherlock?" John said, passing his phone over.

"Hello?" Sherlock said innocently, knowing it would be Harry.

"This is John's phone. I want to speak to John," came Harry's obnoxious voice. It sounded like that smirk had been wiped right off her face.

"I'm sorry, John's driving," Sherlock said sarcastically. "You wouldn't want him to get in trouble with the police now, would you?"

"Quite frankly, Sherlock, I don't care what happens to him. Or you. Crash for all I care," she snapped.

"Why do you even care so much about this dinner?" Sherlock asked, quietly.

"Because I just do... John should know that."

Sherlock stayed quiet.

"Put me over to John," she demanded.

"I've told you, he's driving."

"I was going to propose to Jenny and I wanted John to be there!" Harry suddenly blurted out.

"Oh," murmured Sherlock, stunned. "Well I-"

"Oh shut up, kid. I wouldn't expect you to know anything about this."

She hung up. Sherlock dropped the phone onto John's lap.

"I'm guess that was Harry... What did she want?" John asked, still smiling broadly.

"She said..." Sherlock stopped for a moment.

If he told John that Harry had intended to propose to Jenny, he'd want to go back to the dinner. Sherlock was desperate not to go back there- he was dying to visit John's home.

_You have to tell him_, Sherlock argued. _It's important to Harry...But if you tell him, you won't have him to yourself tonight. And you won't be able to go back to his house. And he'll be too occupied with that stupid sister._

"Sherlock?" John said, interrupting his thoughts. "She said what?"

"Nothing. Just asking us to come back," Sherlock lied, looking the other way.

"She never learns," John sighed, shaking his head.

Sherlock sat back guiltily, but just as before, the drive was surprisingly short and they were pulling up at a semi-detached house.

"This is it," John said, suddenly self-conscious. "It's nothing special."

Sherlock smiled at John's blushing. "It's perfect."  
>They got out and John led Sherlock inside. It was very modern, but with old-fashioned ornaments dotted around everywhere: a beige vase here, a lucky cat there. It seemed strange and mysterious for some reason. It was almost like someone had invaded John's antique world and forced him to modernise it, leaving behind only a few items.<p>

Sherlock sat down gingerly on a wooden chair.

"Sit on the sofa, idiot," John murmured.

"Make me," Sherlock grunted. He didn't like being told what to do.

"Do you really want me to?" John asked, one brow raised. He was looking right at Sherlock, and it gave the student butterflies.

"I'd like to see you try, soldier," Sherlock challenged, one side of his mouth lifting into a smirk.

"Well, if that's how you're playing it..."

John lurched forward and picked Sherlock up, one arm round his shoulders, one round the back of his knees.

"Hey!" Sherlock yelled, starting to giggle. He thrashed around, trying to break free, but John's muscular arms were clamped round Sherlock like a baby's hand round it's mother's finger.

John dropped Sherlock onto the sofa and held him down with one hand on his chest, making sure he wasn't near the operation area. Sherlock struggled around, unable to move, until he ran out of energy. He laid there panting, looking up into John's eyes.

"John..." Sherlock breathed, blinking slowly.

John let himself drop onto Sherlock so he was straddling his waist. Sherlock smiled at feeling John's weight on top of him.

"John, I like you," Sherlock said stupidly.

John laughed. "I know. I like you too."

Then they kissed. This time, the rush in Sherlock's chest was different- it was like a soothing shoreline, not a crashing tsunami. It gave him confidence, it made him feel like he could do anything. Sherlock held onto John as if he could never let go- he wasn't even sure he could. But before he knew it, he was crying. His tears were flowing out like the sea in his chest had escaped. He was sobbing like he'd never sobbed before.

"Sherlock," John breathed, pulling away. "Sherlock what's wrong, did I hurt you?"

"No, I just..."


	12. Chapter 12

"No, I just..."

John slipped off the sofa and onto the floor, sitting up on his knees.

"Don't cry," he pleaded Sherlock.

Sherlock sat up and wiped his eyes, but continued to sob.

"I've never cried like this before," he admitted, using his sleeve to wipe his eyes.

"What's wrong?" John pushed on, pulling Sherlock's arms away and taking hold of his hands.

"I don't know, just... _this_. I was abused John. And all this reminded me of it: being pushed onto a sofa, having someone hanging over me, leaning in," Sherlock snivelled.

John blushed guiltily. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I mean, I thought you wanted me to-"

"I didn't mean you," Sherlock whispered, smiling slightly. "I meant Harry."

"Oh," said John, relaxing slightly. "That made you this upset?"

"Yes- no... I don't know. It's complicated."

John suddenly understood. It wasn't Harry that made him cry- it was all the people that had abused him in the past. All those people, those incidents, those hits, throws, forces... it had all built up to this. Sherlock was having an emotional meltdown from everything that had happened to him. It was like everything had been stacked up into one huge pile and it had finally toppled and collapsed into a heap. Sherlock was broken. He'd been through too much and now he'd found John, there was finally someone to release it all onto. John suddenly realised how fragile and needy Sherlock was. He needed John. Just John.

"Sherlock, come here," John murmured, holding Sherlock's forearms firmly and pulling him round so they had eye contact. It was like how a mother would turn her child to look at her.

Sherlock looked away, not wanting John to see him in such a state.

"Look at me," John said softly.

Sherlock obliged and lifted his head to lock eyes with John.

"I won't let anything like that happen to you again, do you hear me? I promise," John said in a low voice.

Sherlock jerked away from him.

"Don't say that!" he warned, raising his voice.

John raised his eyebrows, shocked at Sherlock's reaction.

"Don't say that to me. Because what happens when we don't know each other? What happens when we don't talk anymore and you're not here to keep those people away? We won't know each other forever! Your sister was right, I am just your toyboy. I'm just here to keep you entertained while you teach, only because you can't get any action from anybody your own age due to the fact you won't even admit how blindingly _homosexual _ you are," Sherlock ranted, curling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them.

John flinched back like Sherlock had slapped him. He basically had just slapped him... mentally.

"You're not just a game to me, Sherlock. You're a person. You're a person that I want in my life, even if it's just as friends if you're not ready for a relationship. I just want you here, with me," John replied calmly.

Sherlock relaxed his muscles slightly and sat back in his seat.

"Where are my painkillers?" he asked quietly.

"I know you're upset but that's not the answer-"

"It's time for me to have one," Sherlock retorted.

John nodded. He dug around in Sherlock's coat pocket and found the box there. He popped one out onto Sherlock's hand. Sherlock kept his hand out.

"What?" asked John, frowning.

"More," Sherlock demanded.

"MOOORRRRE?!" John roared, imitating the man off Oliver Twist.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but couldn't help cracking a smile. He hated that film- he'd only seen it because his mum had made him when he was younger- but he appreciated that John was trying to make light of the situation. It even distracted Sherlock so much that he took the single tablet without thinking, and didn't even notice that John had already put the box back into the coat pocket.

Sherlock put his head back against the arm rest and closed his eyes; crying was much more tiring than he'd realised.

"Do you want to sleep?" John asked, daring to cautiously place a hand on Sherlock's inner forearm. He felt Sherlock's muscle twitch but he made no objection and let John's hand settle onto him.

Sherlock nodded.

"I'll take you back then, come on," John murmured, putting an arm round Sherlock's shoulder. His eyes sprung open.

"I want to stay here," Sherlock whined, pouting.

"Don't look at me like that. Do you know how inappropriate it would be for you to stay in my house overnight?"

Sherlock raised a brow. "Do you know how inappropriate it is to straddle an underage student?"

John smiled. "You're feeling better then..."

"So can I stay?"

John sighed. "Come on," he muttered, holding a hand out.

Sherlock took it and John led him to the 'guest room'.

The walls were painted light blue with wobbly white clouds stuck around at random. Along the bottom, just above the skirting board, sat a spiky green boarder that Sherlock supposed was meant to be grass. In the middle of the room sat a large double bed with a window just above the headboard. The bedding was a fading light blue that matched the walls, but for some reason it seemed to stand out differently. Next to the bed stood a mini chest of drawers that held a lava lamp on top. There was a blue wardrobe at the other side of the room, but apart from that, the room was quite empty.

"Does a child live here?" Sherlock asked, getting hit by the worry that John may have kids.

"No, don't worry. It was mine when I was a kid, this is where I grew up," John explained. "My parents live in Wales now though, so they said I could keep this place if I could pay off the rest of the mortgage."

Sherlock nodded and turned the light on. Suddenly the clouds on the walls seemed to be floating and the walls lit up vibrantly and the grass swayed soothingly. The light seemed to turn the whole place into a summer wonderland: the bed was an immense lilo sailing across the ocean, the lava lamp a lantern crowded by fireflies.

Sherlock liked the room. It was like nothing could go wrong in there because it was all so thoughtfully imaginative. He wasn't tired anymore.

"Did you design this room?" he asked, sitting tentatively on the edge of the bed.

John shrugged. "I told my dad I wanted it blue and he made this."

John sat next to him whilst Sherlock looked around, still taking it in.

"What about Harry's room?" he asked suddenly. "Is that still like how she had it?"

John nodded and rolled his eyes. "Come on, I'll show you."

"No, it doesn't matter," Sherlock murmured, feeling tired again.

John grinned when Sherlock yawned. Sherlock noticed and shoved him. They started a small shoving match which quickly escalated into a full out pillow fight.

"Oh shit!" laughed John, when his pillow started spilling out feathers. "Okay that's enough."

"You did that, not me," Sherlock protested, but he put his pillow down all the same.

John threw his at Sherlock for him to put down too.

"I'll go and get you some pyjamas," John said, going out and to his room.

Sherlock used this time to go into John's wardrobe and see if he had any old clothes left from his childhood. However, when he opened the door, he was greeted with only one outfit: a tiny school uniform hung up on the rail.

It consisted of a light grey v-neck with a yellow stripe around the neck and cuffs. Around this was a long black tie with one horizontal stripe across the middle. It flopped down onto the miniscule grey shorts that hung below it. There was no shirt or shoes, only a pair of grey and yellow socks sat on the bottom of the wardrobe. Everything was so small.

_He can't have been older than 8 when he wore those... Then again, he is pretty small..._

"What are you doing?" John asked as he came back in, making Sherlock jump.

"I was just looking at your uniform," Sherlock said pointing.

"Oh yeah... I forgot that was in there. It's my junior school uniform," John said, eyeing it up.

Sherlock smiled. "What school did you go to?"

"Nothing special, just a local state one."

"With that uniform? Looks private to me," said Sherlock, cocking his head to one side.

John laughed shortly. "Nope. Afraid not. We weren't that well off, unlike your family."

"Very funny," grumbled Sherlock.

"I assume you went private?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock nodded. "Our uniform was similar. I still have it, actually."

He stood thoughtfully before cringing at his school memories. He shuddered.

"Here," said John, thrusting a folded pair of pyjamas into Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock nodded in thank you before unbuttoning his purple top and letting it fall from his white shoulders. He pulled on the pyjama top but left it hanging open. John stood mesmerised for a moment, his mouth hanging open.

"I er... there's a spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet," John stuttered, still staring at Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock sniggered, but it was suddenly cut off as John's lips slammed against his own. Despite the power, it couldn't have felt more pleasant, and the idea of being forced into it didn't once occur in Sherlock's mind.


	13. Chapter 13

_Sorry about my lack of updates! I've had a lot of stuff going on so the standard of writing may be a little shabby right now, and chapters will be shorter. Things should pick up around next week so thanks for sticking with me. I appreciate it :) x_

Sherlock and John were kissing passionately before Sherlock realised they had somehow found their way to the bed. His pyjama shirt had fallen down so it was only hanging limply from his wrists, but he pulled it back up when he swerved away to breathe. As Sherlock focused on John's face, he noticed a pink hue had appeared round his lips. John's eyes were glazed and he was looking at Sherlock in the way one would eye up their greatest desire. He pouted at Sherlock.

"Kiss me," John whined, tugging on Sherlock's shoulders.

It was something of a satisfaction to have John Watson beg in such a way, so Sherlock just smirked and shook his head.

"I told you, I'm tired," Sherlock shrugged, buttoning his shirt up.

He got up to retrieve the pyjama bottoms that had been brought in for him. John huffed and crossed his arms, but turned his attention to Sherlock when he started undressing. Suddenly John started laughing with a hand over his mouth. Sherlock turned to him stunned.

"Are you laughing at my...?" Sherlock trailed off. He stopped changing and stood still in his purple, clinging boxers. They sat just below his hips, both bones peeking over the top.

"Your boxers," John giggled. "They match your shirt."

Sherlock glared at him. "So?" he hissed, jumping into the pyjama bottoms, self-consciously.

"Do you always do that?" John asked, smiling fondly.

"Maybe..." Sherlock said, trying not to smile.

John shook his head, not thinking Sherlock would care about this kind of thing.

"Let me show you something," Sherlock murmured, going back over to the bed once he was dressed.

John looked up at him. "What?"

Sherlock raised a leg up onto the bed and nodded down at his foot. He was wearing deep purple socks that stopped before they reached the bottom of his trousers (John's clothing was much too small for Sherlock) and ended with a black stripe across the top.

"Is this a joke?!" John scoffed, cracking up again. "People actually match all their underwear with their outfit?"

Sherlock shoved him so he fell back onto the bed. John tried to get up, but Sherlock grabbed hold of his waist and wrestled him to the floor.

"Hey stop," John giggled, shaking Sherlock. "I'm stronger than you."

"Doesn't look like it," Sherlock protested arrogantly, pressing a hand down on John's chest to hold him down.

"Well I don't want to hurt your ribs," John said truthfully.

"Likely story..." Sherlock muttered.

John raised a brow and gripped Sherlock's collarbone before flipping them over. He did it with ease, despite Sherlock's struggling.

"I wasn't ready," pouted Sherlock, struggling against John's tight grasp.

"You're forgetting I was in the army," John smiled, releasing Sherlock and helping him to his feet.

Now when John looked at Sherlock he could see his fatigue.

"Okay, go to bed. Seriously this time," John ordered.

Sherlock kissed John's soft, pink lips before getting into bed.

"Goodnight," he said quietly as John left.

In the morning, Sherlock woke with the low winter sun on his face. Apparently he had forgotten to pull down the black-out blind when he had gone to sleep. He screwed his eyes up sleepily, the light blinding him uncomfortably. He pulled the duvet up under his chin and stretched out as he let out a deep breath. He could hear John moving around, probably making breakfast.

As Sherlock relaxed again, he suddenly felt something against his thigh. He groaned loudly as he realised what the familiar wet (going crusty) feeling was. He threw the duvet off him and jumped out of bed, shedding his pyjama bottoms, checking them anxiously.

_Really? You had to do _that_ in John's pyjamas?! _he scolded himself.

However, he found the pyjamas perfectly clean, and instead turned to the situation in his underwear. He bit his lip and considered his options: keep them on anyway?

_Gross._

Take them off and go without?

_Worse._

Take some of John's and hide the evidence.

Sherlock decided this was the best idea, so he peeled the soiled underwear off and stuffed them into the wardrobe he'd been looking in yesterday. John probably never went in there. That's when he realised he was in John's kiddy bedroom, and there wouldn't be any underwear in here. He groaned to himself and poked his head round the door. Sherlock could still hear John moving around in the kitchen so he ran across the hall, trying all of the doors to find John's current bedroom.

During this process, Sherlock stumbled upon Harry's old bedroom and couldn't help but stop to soak it all in. It was blindingly black, the walls pasted with posters of heavy metal bands and blood and tattoo designs and piercings. He marvelled at the draping, black curtains and the proudly tall wardrobe that had red graffiti thrown all over it. It was hard to tell what it said, but it still looked impressive among the rest of the dark room. The bed, like John's, still had its bedding on it- black satin sheets with black and white stripes on the pillows. The white stood out dazzlingly inside the room, contrasting beautifully with the deep silence.

"Sherlock?"

_Shit._

Sherlock ran out of the room and closed the door before trying the one next to it.

_Finally_, he thought as he entered a large, brown and cream bedroom. This one had to be John's.

As he skipped his way across to the chest of drawers at the far side, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock flung the smallest drawer open and grabbed a pair of white boxers, tugging them on at the speed of light.

John's footsteps were walking across the hall.

Sherlock pulled his pyjama trousers up, letting go of the waistband just as John walked in.

John raised his eyebrows and folded his arms.

"Justhoughti-" Sherlock stumbled. "Just thought I'd have a look around your room."

"Really?" John asked, sceptically.

Sherlock nodded. "What else would I be doing?"

"I dread to think," admitted John.

Sherlock shrugged and walked out.

"What's wrong?" John asked, following him.

"Nothing but... I should be getting back soon, shouldn't I?"

"Should you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Assignments, John. You're forgetting I take two classes now."

"You're in mine, how could I forget?" John questioned him. "Besides, you're always miles ahead on your assignments."

Sherlock smiled- John knew him so well.

"Well, I have cases to see to, experiments to carry out, you know the sort," Sherlock mumbled.

"Enlighten me?"

"I'm intelligent. I help solve crimes and I like to experiment. It keeps me sane."

"You call yourself sane?" John joked as they reached the kitchen. "Anyway, you're not leaving until you eat some breakfast."

Sherlock grunted, but accepted a bowl of cereal when it was served to him. John ruffled Sherlock's hair fondly.

"I'm just gonna brush my teeth, okay?" John murmured, walking out.

As soon as he had left, Sherlock stood up uncomfortably. Unlike the rest of his clothes, John's underwear certainly wasn't too small for him. They were short, yes, but extremely baggy around the crotch area. Sherlock blushed, thinking about what this meant, but John came back in before he could do anything about it.

John smiled, but as he was about to speak, Sherlock's phone beeped. He looked at it.

New student at your university. You may want to hear about him. -Mycroft

Oh yes? -Sherlock

He's intelligent, quick witted and apparently a criminal mastermind. -Mycroft

Oh really? Do go on. -Sherlock

He goes by the name of James Moriarty. Watch your back, little brother. -Mycroft


	14. Chapter 14

_Sorry again about the delay :( I've been really busy lately with school arrangements, and sports injuries :/ But here's another chapter, so I hope you enjoy._

When they got back to university, Sherlock jumped out of the car without looking back at John.

"Hey, what's the rush?" John called after him. "I don't get a kiss?"

"Keep your voice down," Sherlock hissed, looking around. "Do you want to get fired?"

"Oh come on," said John, raising a brow. "Nobody in this entire university is awake at this time on a Saturday."

"No but there's a new person, and he will be," Sherlock snapped, seriously now.

"Do you know him or something?"

"No, but... he's different," Sherlock murmured, his mind elsewhere.

"Sherlock, is there something you're not telling me?"

"I have no idea who this new person is. But Mycroft wouldn't have texted me about him if it wasn't important."

John huffed miserably but walked in with Sherlock, all the way to his dorm. When they got there, Sherlock rolled his eyes as John stepped from foot to foot next to the door.

"Do you want to come in or something?" Sherlock grunted.

John nodded enthusiastically. "I wanna see what you're doing about this new student."

"I need to do some research, get in touch with a few contacts," Sherlock said vaguely.

"And what else...?"

"Nothing! Are you jealous or something?" Sherlock asked, still clutching the door handle.

"Just curious," John said indignantly.

"Yes well you shouldn't be. What was that thing you said to me? Curiosity killed the... dog."

"Cat, not dog, you numpty," John sighed.

Sherlock shook his head- it could be dog, cat, or a bloody lizard for all he cared.

"Wait here. I need to check if Robert's in there," he muttered, but Sherlock was pretty much certain he wouldn't be.

Sure enough, when he poked his head round the door, he found it dark and empty.

"Okay, come on," he said, pulling John's wrist.

John smiled when they went inside, even though it was messy and extremely 'student like'. Robert's side of the room was scattered with dirty football kits and crisp wrappers and empty protein shake cups. Sherlock's area, on the other hand, was covered in chemistry textbooks, forensic science guides, crime exercises and various 'confidential' police cases that Lestrade had sent to him via the post. John moved over to take a look at them while Sherlock opened the curtains on the rear side of the room.

"Don't move them," demanded Sherlock when he turned around.

"They're not even in order," John pointed out, looking around at the mess they were in.

"It's not the order I'm worried about. But if somebody takes a confidential police case and it ends up in the news, Lestrade will lose his job. And more importantly, he won't be able to give me any more cases," Sherlock told him, not bothering to explain who Lestrade is.

John just frowned. "So you won't let me touch them but you trust your roommate in here with them?"

Sherlock barked a laugh. "Are you kidding? Robert's no threat, he wouldn't be able to understand these cases!"

"You do have to be a certain level of intelligence to actually go to university. You do know that, don't you?" John said.

"Of course I do. But come on, _you _probably couldn't even understand any of these yourself, never mind work them out."

"Oh yeah?" John asked, sourly. "Is that a challenge I hear?"

"Not really," shrugged Sherlock, not in the mood for games. "But if you really think you've got a chance, take a look at that one over there. I've been puzzling over it for months with no joy."

Sherlock pointed over at a thick pile of papers, held together by a large, novelty paperclip. John picked it up.

"I have to read all of this?" he asked unsurely.

"Well, if you're not up to it..." Sherlock murmured, taking the file back.

"Oh give it here," John snapped, snatching it away from him.

Sherlock flopped onto his bed as John sat down on Robert's chair. Sherlock thought about pointing out that the chair wasn't actually his, but decided there wasn't much point. He suspected Robert wouldn't be back until late next morning. For those guys, the weekend was just one long night of getting high and getting pissed one after the other, and sometimes simultaneously.

It took forever for John to read the entire case. Sherlock had been trying to occupy himself for the world's longest hour before John dropped the file onto the floor and stretched.

"Finally," Sherlock sighed, groaning. "So what do you think?"

"Hold your horses, Sherlock, I've only just bloody read it. You've got to give me a chance to think about it," protested John.

"But what are your ideas so far? You must have some clue, you've been at it for an hour," Sherlock urged, shaking John's shoulder.

John giggled. "Just let me think about it."

But after ten minutes of pouring over the final page, John still had no clue what the solution was.

"I can't get my head round it," John admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock sat back against the wall whilst John swung side to side on the office chair.

"Me neither," Sherlock grumbled, knocking his head against the wall. He sighed before getting up and moving over to kiss John. John accepted willingly, smiling into the kiss as it got more passionate.

Suddenly Sherlock heard the familiar click from the door as a key turned in it. He launched himself away from John and opened a textbook just as Robert opened the door.

Robert glanced over Sherlock, used to seeing him with his head in a book. However, he stopped dead when he saw John.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped. "Aren't you that medicine teacher?"

"Er yes I am," John said, blushing hard. "I just came in to see... how Sherlock was getting on with his medicine assignment."

"So it's your fault he's here," Robert grunted, turning to Sherlock. "It's your fault there's a stuck up doctor on my side of the room."

Sherlock stayed silent.

"Talk to me then, queer!" Robert yelled suddenly.

"Hey!" roared John, standing up and rounding on Robert. "Don't you dare talk to him like that!"

"What are you going to do about it?" Robert laughed. "You're just the same as well."

"And what are you? A stupid, uneducated fool who discriminates against other people to make himself feel better!"

"Oh don't give me that bollocks. Move along, Watson."

"You want me to move alo-"

"Oh give it a rest, you two. Come on J- Dr Watson. It's not worth it," Sherlock muttered, standing up to join them.

"Alright. Fine," huffed John, still fuming. "But you're coming with me, Sherlock. I'm not leaving you with _that_."

Sherlock bit his lip. It would come across as weird if he went with John, but if he didn't he'd surely get beaten to a bloody mess. But thankfully, ironically, Robert saved him from the decision.

"Save it, I'm going anyway. I only came in to get my wallet," he spat, picking up his wallet. John watched him.

Robert stopped and grabbed Sherlock's collar. "Next time, take your _friends_ somewhere else. And don't let them sit in my chair. I don't wanna catch their puff disease... faggot."

John grabbed Robert's shirt between his shoulders and shoved him out of the door. Robert laughed and went on his way.

Sherlock dropped onto his bed and closed his eyes. "Thank you."

John shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "Is he always like that?"

"What do you think?" sighed Sherlock.

"You've gotta do something about that. Get a room swap or something. But honestly Sherlock, he's abusing you!" John told him, settling down on Sherlock's wooden chair.

"Don't be a drama queen. I can't be bothered with the hassle. They're all the same anyway, it doesn't matter who I share a room with, they're all the same."

"In that case, get your brother to request a single room," John said simply.

"There's no spare rooms. Trust me, we've tried it," he assured John, sighing. "Leave it, I don't want to talk about Robert now. I want to talk about how close that was to us getting caught."

"Apparently he knows your gay anyway. I heard what he called you."

Sherlock shook his head. "They don't know. It's just... I don't know."

John smiled sadly. "I have a lot of marking to be getting on with. Do you want to come with me?"

"Hm, let me think about that..." Sherlock smiled sarcastically. "I think not."

"Yeah, I kinda saw that coming," John chuckled lightly, still a bit pissed off. "But come and see me tonight?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Here's my mobile number. Text me, okay?"

"Okay."

They kissed as goodbye and John left, closing the door firmly. Sherlock added the number to his contacts and texted it.

It's Sherlock.

As soon as the message had sent, Sherlock's phone rang. He frowned.

_He's only just left_, Sherlock thought, assuming it was John calling about tonight. But the number wasn't his.

"Hello?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

Silence.

"Is anybody there?"

Silence.

"I'm just going to hang up if-"

"Jim Moriarty. Hullo."


End file.
